


Where the Heart Moves the Stone

by Vain



Series: The J. Alfred Prufrock Arc [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Minor Character Death, Teacher-Student Relationship, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-07
Updated: 2003-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 126,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vain/pseuds/Vain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The J. Alfred Prufrock Arc Verse 9 - SS/HP slash. A story of hunters, hunted, & prophets in which Harry fights for Severus, Severus fights himself, and Draco gets caught in the crossfire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Blind Men's Duet

**Author's Note:**

> **_  
> Where the Heart Moves the Stone_**  
>  ~ Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc ~  
> \- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
> 10.7.2003
> 
> ***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***
> 
> **Standard Disclaimer:** I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ was written by T.S. Elliot. The lyrics to _Dark Time_ belongs to October Project. All biblical quotes cited can be found in the  King James Bible released by Thomas Nelson Publishers. I am not profiting from this.  
>  ** _Warnings:_** SS/HP slash.  
>  ***Continuity:** This is the sequel to _Two Foot Palace_ and is Verse 9 of _J. Alfred Prufrock Arc_.  
>  **Notes: Rule of thumb:** Any quote from _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ Severus’s POV. Any quote from _The Mystic’s Dream_ is Harry’s POV. Those lyrics preceding the chapters that are _not_ from the Bible are from October Project’s song _Dark Time_.
> 
> **A thousand laurels** to my beta _ladydeathfarie_ \--Best Beta Ever. XD I love this woman; she makes me lucid!
> 
>  
> 
> **Do not steal from me.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Please review.**
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy!

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**~ Prologue ~  
The Blind Men's Duet**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

" _I should have been a pair of ragged claws  
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas._

_And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!  
Smoothed by long fingers,  
Asleep... tired... or it malingers,  
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.  
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,  
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?  
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,  
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,  
I am no prophet - and here's no great matter;  
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,  
I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,  
And in short, I was afraid._ "

\- T.S. Elliot  
 _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**

_"S_ ir? Sir . . .?"

Papers shuffled as the man gathered a bundle of scrolls in his arms, steadfastly ignoring the boy standing in front of his desk. 

The boy pursed his lips and clenched his hands tightly around the scroll he held at his chest. The man turned around so that he didn't have to raise his eyes to meet those of his companion and began to file the scrolls on the shelves behind his desk. The classroom was empty—it would be the dinner hour soon—and, somewhere in the very back of the room, water dripped steadily into the sink. The smell of wormwood and cinnamon was heavy in the air.

"Sir?" He took a tentative step forward closer to the desk. "I have the essay for you."

The man continued to ignore him.

"I finished it this morning. Madame Pomfrey just released me."

Silence. 

"Do you—"

"Leave it on the desk."

For a moment the boy hesitated, the scroll still held tightly to his chest. Directly in front of his heart. The man continued his filing.

"Sir—"

"The desk, Mr. Potter."

The silence of the dungeon was broken as the boy slammed his scroll down on the teacher's desk. " _Severus_ —!"

Severus froze. "Get out, Potter."

"I—"

The man whirled around, black eyes flashing with an indescribable emotion. " _OUT!!!_ "

Harry fled.

****

  


*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


Once upon a time there was a little boy who used to reach out to grasp Christmas lights. Every year, as soon as the weather turned chill and the kerosene heater came out, he would remember the lights. His foster mother was very, very poor and could not afford to have an ordinary Christmas, so she had to do the best she could—even if that meant doing things the Muggle way. So every year she would string up a bedraggled strand of glittering lights in their tiny efficiency and the little boy—still a baby, really—would toddle over to the ragged, fake Christmas tree that was missing more boughs than it had, and try to pull down the lights. Occasionally he would succeed and topple the little tree in the process, but his mother could not bring herself to begrudge her boy such a small pleasure. She could not afford presents, so the lights would have to do.

One Christmas however, when the boy was about four or five, his mother did not string up the Christmas lights. In fact, she did not get out of bed at all. The little boy hovered anxiously about his mother as she lay still in her bed, occasionally prodding her with a small, slightly chubby finger.

"Mama? Mama?"

She was not his real mama; he knew that. She had been a friend of his real mama, she had once told him. Close friends ever since First Year, she'd always said. She would never say more, though; she only spoke of 'those days' with a distant kind of pain. The little boy didn't understand, but he didn't remember his real Mama either, so he called her Mama instead. The woman didn't mind. "You're my son, then!" she'd say. "My baby. My family."

"Mama?"

The woman reached out to the child and tried to pull him up onto the bed with her, but was too weak. Her thin, pale arms went lax and her breath rattled loudly in her chest, a rough, wet sound. "Come lay down with Mama, Tommy."

The boy clambered up onto the thin, uncomfortable mattress and snuggled into his foster mother's arms. "Are you sick, Mama?"

For a moment the woman was silent, then she sighed sadly. "I'm tired, Tommy."

Solemn green eyes watched his mother's drawn, sweat streaked face. A small nose wrinkled. "You should go to sleep then."

"I'd like that." She smiled faintly, a surprisingly soft expression for such a hard face, but one that made her seem to glow for a moment. Her deep blue eyes closed tiredly. "Tommy, if I ever go away, you will have to look out for yourself, okay, love? Can you do that for Mama?"

"Where are you going, Mama?"

A short gasp left her thin chest, a sound resembling a chuckle. "Nowhere yet, lovey. But if I do, then just remember that. Remember how much I love you. And remember that, no matter what anyone says or does to you, you are _special_. You are stronger than them. Better. Smarter. There is so _much_ —"

She broke off, coughing and gasping for air. Blood stained her lips.

"Mama?"

"I love you Tommy. And no matter what, don't you ever let them beat you." Tears slid down the woman's thin cheeks. "Don't make the mistakes that I did. You be in control, not them."

The child's brow furrowed as he frowned at his mother. A small hand rose and clumsily brushed the tears off her cheeks. "Please don't cry, Mama. It'll be okay. Go to sleep—I'll protect you."

A sigh left the woman, a seeming acquiescence and her blue eyes fluttered closed reluctantly.

"Go to sleep, Mama."

Several days later the police arrived on a telephone call from the neighbors. It was Christmas Eve when they found a small child scrounging about in a cupboard for food. His mother, a pretty young woman who had aged too soon, lay dead in the adjacent room. The medical examiner said that it was tuberculosis. There had been a small epidemic sweeping the slums that year, but no one really cared. It was only the poor. 

The woman was given a pauper's funeral: a mumbled prayer and a wooden box in a shallow grave with only a bit of stone with her name to mark the site. The child was placed in one of London's many over-crowded, under funded orphanages under the care of an abusive monstrosity of a man named Calloway. Soon, he too faded from sight, swallowed by the quagmire that was Social Services and eventually relegated to a faded name on a yellow file in an overstuffed cubby. 

And, again, no one cared. 

Thus was the fate of a little boy who no longer remembered the lights.

  


**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**  


Narcissa Malfoy lay in bed, her husband's head on her lap as she gently stroked his pale hair back from his face. Lucius's clouded gray eyes stared up at the green canopy that sheltered their bed and his breathing was soft and even. Narcissa sang quietly as her fingers massaged his scalp; it was an old song, her father had sung it to her, and she had sung it to Draco. Before she and Lucius had made good on their betrothal vows, Lucius had never had anyone to sing to him.

"Way over yonder . . . Is a place that I know . . . Where I can find shelter . . . From the hunger and cold . . ."

Lucius stirred slightly. "Draco . . .?"

The singing stopped short as a sudden breath caught in the delicate woman's throat. "He . . . left for school. Over a month ago." Her words were hesitant, the veela heritage that they had both passed onto their son giving her melodic voice a seductively mournful quality. 

"Oh . . ." Lucius's brow furrowed suddenly and he looked annoyed, the odd foggy look in his eyes lifting for a moment. "I _know_ that!" He sounded peevish. Narcissa sighed silently and resumed stroking his hair. "The letter . . . There was a letter . . .?"

"I sent it this morning."

The foggy look returned. "Oh . . . Did you tell him—"

Narcissa's porcelain features twisted in pain and she turned her face away slightly, her wide blue eyes squeezed tightly shut. "You spoke to him before he left. Remember, love? And this summer. Draco knows what he may do."

Lucius opened his eyes and frowned sadly at the pain on his wife's face. "He was angry with me when he left. I . . . said harsh things." Narcissa said nothing. Lucius tilted his head slightly to the side. "I struck him."

The hand running through his hair tightened momentarily before letting go. "I know." The stroking resumed.

After a moment Lucius reached up and gently cupped Narcissa's cheek. She flinched and then turned her face back to him. A gentle swipe with his thumb soothed away the lone tear that slid down her smooth cheek. Their eyes met and, though they did not smile at one another, the tension in the room seemed to dissipate.

"Continue?"

Narcissa blinked rapidly at the quiet request and leaned back against the headboard again. She may not like everything her husband did—indeed, sometimes she did not even like her husband—but he was her husband. 

Lucius closed his eyes. "He's calling again."

"Will you go to him?" she asked, threading her fingers again through that long silky hair. It was a rhetorical question, of course. Lucius always went.

"Soon." He opened his eyes and watched her expressionlessly. "It will be alright."

"Mmm," Narcissa agreed quietly. He was her husband—she didn't have to like him to love him. And she did love him. "It will be alright."

Veelas mate for life.

"Continue?" he asked once more.

Narcissa smiled faintly and closed her eyes. It would be alright. "And the sweet tasting good life . . . Is so easily found . . . Way over yonder, that's where I'm bound . . ."

And as she sang, the Dark Mark on Lucius's arm burned.

  


**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**  


Inside the highest tower of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Albus Dumbledore sat behind his cluttered desk, idly stroking his beard. It was late and the fire had burned down to barely more than embers, but he made no attempt to revive it. His face was lined with wrinkles and age had made his skin papery and thin. His hands were slightly gnarled-looking and his eyes seemed to lack their normal clarity, as though the years weighed more heavily on him at that moment than they usually did. Currently those eyes were fixed on a large grandfather clock set in a hidden corner, nearly engulfed by shadows.

The wood of the clock was deep cherry oak and the pendulum was a heavy golden teardrop that swung stiffly in an even, tireless rhythm. A table stood next to the clock. On it was a strange, six-tiered board upon which multiple pieces spun silently.

The clock struck with a dull chime, the heavy bells behind the pendulum rising and fall five times.

Albus closed his eyes tiredly. "Twenty-seven hands." Perhaps he'd have to have a new one made soon.

On the Scaccarium the carunculous danced without cease.

  
**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**  



	2. The Flight of the Timid Man

**_  
Where the Heart Moves the Stone_**  
~ Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc ~  
\- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
10.7.2003

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**~ Chapter One ~  
The Flight of the Timid Man**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

What dark time is coming?  
What dark time is here?  
The prophet emerges  
in garments of fear.  
He calls to his people to come to the feast;  
They gather unto him to wait for release.  
Alleluia . . .

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**

_I_ think I would make a marvelous lush. It’s ten o’clock. Detention is over. I’ve sent the last owl out to _Potions Weekly_. My Slytherins are safely tucked in—or at least shamming it well enough that I’ll not be bothered. And he’s . . . _somewhere_. 

He’s not asleep. I doubt he ever sleeps much these days. He’s become very good at hiding his slouched posture and smiling when the situation demands it. But I can see past the glamour he’s woven around himself to hide his hollow cheeks and the circles beneath his eyes. Most of the staff can as well, and, though we sit around and weekly argue the boy’s case at every staff meeting, nothing gets done. I make the proper acidic comments, whether or not it’s warranted, Minerva scolds me and glares, Sprout simpers to no effect, and Trelawney favors us all with a sad, condescending smile and her usual occasional dramatics predicting his unpleasant end. And all the while the Boy-Who-Lived-For-Nothing slides just a bit farther away, slowly but surely. It is all very tiring.

In the far corner sits that blasted invisibility cloak, left behind from when he fled my lab and draped with telltale care over an old rocking chair that Albus insists I keep in here. That was probably the smartest thing he has ever done: run away and hide. I recognize this on a purely intellectual level, of course. On any other level, it cuts like Crucius—all the more reason to bypass any other level. My father used to say that you have to break in half to love someone. Not his words, I’m sure, but he was a man of curious wisdom and as a child I learned very quickly to never give him cause to repeat himself. 

I cannot stop staring at the damn cloak. For some reason, I have the strangest idea that if I go over there and lift it up, he’ll be sitting there staring at me with those horrendously expectant eyes. Watching. Waiting.

For what? Why? Why from me? 

He understands nothing.

And yet he always seems to leave me with more questions than answers. I loathe him for that. Ignorance is dangerous. Ignorance is death. 

_“There is no time!”_

And I hate that damn rocking chair. Damn Albus.

I close my eyes and turn back to the fire. I should burn the cloak. It’s the best I can offer him right now—and the best thing I can do for myself. The . . . temptation to use it . . . is great. But it is a Potter cloak, not mine. Nothing that has been a Potter’s can ever be a Snape’s. We do not accept charity. We have never needed to. And Potters have always (wisely) stayed by their own kind. 

Something as which I do not qualify.

_“Mother!! Father, stop it!”_

_“Don’t you take that tone with me, boy!”_

My eyes close before they can return to staring at the chair in the corner. Yes. You have to break in half to love someone. I am not that much of a fool yet.

. . . I should burn the cloak.

Yet I know I cannot.

I slouch a bit farther in my chair and take a sip of merlot. The sweet flavor masks most of the alcohol and I wonder idly if I really should have a third glass tonight. Probably not, but I will anyway.

I do many things that I should not. I find myself caring less and less these days. _“You’re becoming distant,”_ Albus tells me. _“Is everything alright, my boy?”_

No. And I am not your damn boy.

Your spy? Yes. Your _servant_? Yes. I’ll even accept serf. It’s no less than I deserve; I put myself in this position. My own carelessness, arrogance, bigotry, and stupidity landed me where I am today. I am a slave to two masters—both mad in their own ways, both brilliant—and I know and understand that.

But I am _not_ your boy. Nor am I the Dark Lord’s serpent, or whatever other condescending endearment strikes his fancy. I am myself. I leave all other titles to lesser or greater men than I, and there is no short supply of them.

So don’t call me your damn boy, Albus.

I take another sip of my merlot. The sudden unsteadiness of my hand has nothing to do with the alcohol.

Fools, liars, and murders: the whole lot of them. And I stand among the worst of them for daring . . . for _thinking_ —

 _Why_ didn’t he simply leave when I told him to? _Why_ did he have to be so stubborn? So damned determined? So . . . _him_?

And how could I have . . . have _attacked_ him like that? Pressed him so tightly against me, and crushed his mouth to mine, _touched_ what I had no right—no RIGHT—

 _Why_ is this happening?

I clutch the glass tighter than necessary and merlot sloshes over the lip to spill onto the expensive rug below.

I see him. I see him everyday. He’s hiding. Hiding from me, hiding from his friends, hiding from himself. And I want to comfort him and I want to kill him. Not in some in some abstract way, but in a real, physical, finite way. I want to kill him. I want to end his existence.

I want to kill him because he’s here. I want to kill him because he’s not with me. I want to kill him so that I never have to face him— _this_ —ever again. I want to kill him so that no one else will. I want to kill him because it would be so much _kinder_ —so much better—to stop this suffering that he’s so determined to endure. I want to kill him . . .

Because he’s mine.

And those thoughts thrill and sicken me by turns.

And I could be so _kind_! So gentle. No pain. No fear. No terrible knowledge of the end. Poison in his butterbeer—simple, sweet, and quiet. I’d hold him as he slept. I could do that for him. I could save him like that; I swear I could.

. . . 

So I mustn’t go near him. Mustn’t look. Mustn’t touch. Mustn’t _want_ , even though I can’t stop myself. Even though the effort tears us both apart.

I’ve made his life hell this year. I ignore him. I barely acknowledge his presence in class, save to prevent him from harming himself. I fear that he may become more reckless or even self-destructive. Instead he studies. He’s smart, so much smarter than I thought he was. I want to tell him so, but what would it mean? I look through him when he tries to speak to me. He takes his detentions with Filch. I watch him, and we both know that he’s watching me, but I don’t dare go near him. Not ever again. Not when I want something this much.

I don’t even have a name to assign to the mess of emotions he inspires. I loathe him. I cherish him. I want him. I want to destroy him to protect him. And the feelings grow daily. What happens, I wonder, if one day the Dark Lord looks in me and sees him? Or worse, if he looks into me and sees himself? That scares me even more than the Dark Lord.

I am a coward. I have lived my life dictated by either apathy or fear. I feared James Potter and Sirius Black. I feared the possibility of turning into my father. I feared failing my mother—invalidating her sacrifice. The rest does not matter to me, neither then nor now. I don’t care who wins the world by the end of this—I will survive. I am Slytherin. When all has passed, I will be standing still, or nothing will be left to stand.

But now there is _him_ to contend with. My benevolent, misguided child-god. My own Odin on the World Tree. My wise Fool.

I do not fear Harry Potter. I fear what I will become beneath him—and I _am_ beneath him now. I am his utterly, and that disturbs me less than it should. I could sooner cut off my own hands than deny him; all the more reason to keep my vigil from a distance. A long, safe distance. However much or however little I ever served Albus, for better or worse, I now follow _his_ lead. And he is leading us all down into oblivion.

I do not know what to do any longer. It is not I who has gone mad—it is the world. How then can I survive?

_“You should eat more, Severus. You’ve only drunk your wine; you know that’s not good for you.”_

I pour myself another glass of merlot and stare at the fire.

_“You know that’s not good for you.”_

Leave me alone, Albus.

I drink more than I should—I know that—but I rarely get drunk. I also know that Albus carefully monitors how much liquor I take on a daily basis and (though he’d never admit it), he is behind the times when my liquor cabinet turns up mysteriously bare for several days. He’s a nosey old bastard, even if he is a well-intentioned one.

I raise my glass to the disinterested fireplace and toast the flames. “To meddling, senile fools, Muggle Hunts, and supple young boys.” A log pops in the fire, chastising me for my poor taste. I drain the glass and pour myself another.

_“You should talk to him, Severus. Everyone else has tried. The young man responds to you.”_

Oh, if only you knew just _how_ he responds to me, you manipulative, condescending son of a—

A dull knock on my chamber door rouses me from my uncharitable thoughts and I turn in my seat, staring stupidly at the entrance for a moment.

_’Tis some visitor, I mutter, knocking at my chamber door—only this and nothing more._

Some part of me is amused by the thought, but the knock sounds again, quieter, and my amusement vanishes beneath a scowl. I mutter a charm under my breath and my merlot disappears. I really wanted that fourth glass.

“Come!”

_And here I open wide the door._

There is no hesitation, confirming that it’s one of the Slytherins. I sigh and sit up a bit straighter. It is not an uncommon occasion for a student to come to me for something after curfew when their housemates are asleep and therefore unable to either fuss over or harass them. All of the Houses are very territorial and over protective of their members and, though Slytherins are the rule rather than the exception to that, my little snakes have no problem with terrorizing one another within the safety of our dungeons.

_Darkness there, and nothing more._

I’m getting too old for this.

Draco Malfoy enters with his usual self-possessed grace and I watch him critically. He’s attractive, there’s no denying that, but I am not attracted _to_ him. In fact the very idea of having sex with Draco Malfoy is enough to make even my stomach turn. It has been the same with every boy in the school. I’ve watched them this year—watched them _all_ —in the hopes that perhaps some madness has possessed me. Perhaps I’ve been taken by a demon, or have truly, truly sunken to the lowest level of depravity possible . . .

But, no.

Though there is no shortage of pretty boy or variety in any of the classes at Hogwarts, none of them are anything to me but snot-nosed, arrogant, upstart, ankle-biters. All of them except one. And he is _always_ the exception, isn’t he?

“Sir?”

“Is there something you need, Mr. Malfoy?”

Draco’s impassive silver eyes watch me for a moment, contemplating things that no sixteen year old should have to deal with most likely, and eventually he turns away. He stares blankly at a bookcase and I frown at the unusual behavior. Draco inherited a good deal of his mother’s personality, including her direct and slightly overbearing way of dealing with things. It’s unusual for him to hesitate after approaching someone, particularly if he initiated the contact. Though I sometimes truly loath the boy for his terminal pride, pride which often leads him to do unbelievably stupid things, I cannot help being amused by his boundless self-confidence. Draco is one of the strongest Slytherins I’ve met in years. To see that confidence disturbed . . . unnerves me.

After some moments of silence I shift in my seat to get his attention. “Have a seat, Mr. Malfoy. Your affect tells me that this may take a while.”

He turns away from an intensive study of my armoire and accepts my invitation with a curt nod. I watch with hooded eyes as he settles himself. He rearranges his night robe around himself with unnecessary care, his slipper-clad feet crossed at the ankles. The fire pops again and I feel a ridiculous urge to tell it to be silent.

“He’s had a rough time of it, hasn’t he?” Draco’s eyes are fixed on his lap where his hands rest, fingers interlaced. “Potter, I mean,” he clarifies after a moment. 

“Most likely.” I settle back a bit more comfortably in my armchair. “I do not concern myself with such things.” _Nor should you._ I do not say it, but the message is clear.

Draco continues staring down at his hands. They are large in comparison to Harry’s. The thought irritates me, so I push it away.

“Things will end badly for him, won’t they?”

“Most likely.” My voice is flat and emotionless. I have come to terms with that fact. I hate it and I want to reject it, but it is pointless to fight the inevitable. I always lose.

“My mother asked me to give you something, sir.” I stiffen imperceptibly, but he does not look up. “Father and I talked before . . .” his voice cracks pitifully, the only emotion he’s shown since he arrived, “before he—he was arrested. He told me that there might, perhaps, be choices.”

I tilt my head slightly to the side, measuring him. “We all have choices, Mr. Malfoy. I was under the impression that your father had been released from Azkaban in June. He and I . . . met.”

Draco’s eyes remain fixed on his hands. His voice is a whisper. “Father’s not been well since he came home.”

I watch him silently. That certainly explained some things. Lucius and I have always had a . . . _complex_ relationship. Never close friends, never outright enemies, he and I have always walked a fine line. He knows I am a spy; I have mountains of evidence to prove beyond a doubt that he was and still is a Death Eater of his own recognizance. Neither of us has ever chosen to act on what we know—we are both far better at the game than that—but I still cannot help but feel a bit uneasy. 

Is this the day that Lucius decides to play his hand? My own is pitifully weak at the moment. And if the Malfoy patriarch is no longer fit to make the family’s decision, then that leaves Narcissa in charge. Though Narcissa is a brilliant as she is deadly, she is proud and impetuous—if not out and out emotionally unstable at times—habits that she and her husband have passed on in abundance to their progeny. For his part, the Malfoy heir looks . . . troubled. Frightened, perhaps. Though he had been acting oddly this term, I had thought little of it.

Careless.

I must be losing my touch. This matter with the boy has me far too distracted. Thank Merlin _He_ has not summoned me since August.

“You said that you had something for me?” I prompt at last.

Steely gray eyes raise and regard me expressionlessly. “A message. It’s something Father told her. It’s my choice to tell you this.” His eyes flash suddenly, daring me to challenge him. “Father said so. It’s my choice.”

I remain silent. 

“Mother wrote and told me to tell you, ‘Horace is awakening. We’ve bought a new glass.’”

It is only a lifetime of control that stops me from leaping out of my seat. Instead, I tilt my head slightly once more and struggle not to swallow the lump that’s risen in my throat. “Those were the exact words?”

“Verbatim.”

I nod and look away to stare into the flames in silence. Draco watches me with hard eyes, studying me, searching for some emotion or sign of approval or disapproval. It is a wasted effort. I know what a risk he’s taken . . . probably better than he does. But it is _because_ of that risk that I dare not acknowledge what he has done. Not yet, at least.

A full minute passes before Draco accepts that he will receive nothing more from me. He stands with atypical awkwardness and hovers anxiously for a moment before heading towards the door with a “Goodnight, sir” that I barely process.

At the door he pauses, his hand on the handle. I can sense his hesitation and turn to look at him. He does not turn around. “The Headmaster does a good job at protecting him, doesn’t he? I’ve seen him . . . friends always on hand. Staff always watching. He’s in good hands.”

I turn back to the flames, frowning. Draco is right, of course; he’s always surrounded by people. Always in a crowd. But they’re not _with_ him, only surrounding him. The teachers, the staff, the Order . . . He’s even got himself quite a lovely army among the students—and the name D.A notwithstanding, they follow _Harry_ , not anyone else. Yes, we’ve done a fine job protecting him; he’s very safe.

Very safe and very overwhelmed.

“Goodnight, Mr. Malfoy.”

The door closes silently behind the child and I release a breath I hadn’t known I’ve been holding. 

I’ll not complete my grading tonight. 

I cannot bring myself to care.

  
**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**   



	3. The Wary Crown

**_  
Where the Heart Moves the Stone_**  
~ Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc ~  
\- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
10.7.2003

**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**~ Chapter Two ~  
The Wary Crown**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

“For the house of Israel and the house of Judah  
have dealt very treacherously against me, saith the Lord.  
They have belied the Lord and said,  
It is not he; neither shall evil come upon us;  
neither shall we see sword, nor famine:  
And the prophets shall become wind,  
and the word is not in them:  
thus shall it be done unto them.  
Wherefore thus saith the Lord God of hosts,  
Because ye speak this word, behold,  
I will make my words in thy mouth fire, and this people wood,  
and it shall devour them.”  
\- Jeremiah 5:11 – 14

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**

_D_ umbledore had decided, in his mysteriously effective unilateral way, that Trelawney and Firenze would alternate the days they each taught classes. Thus it was that Harry and Ron found themselves sitting in Trelawney’s old, poorly lit tower, inhaling the thick, incense-laden air. Not one to be outdone by an “over-grown horse,” the flaky Divinations Professor had decided to kick off the year with Tribal Divination. 

After over four weeks of chicken bones, animal blood, two moonlight dances (fully clothed, despite the old bat’s complaints, thank Merlin), and various types of innards, most of the students couldn’t wait to start Tarot readings. Much to his year mates’ surprise, Harry had actually gotten a head start on Tarot, selecting a deck and starting his journal, and had now worked his way up to the Woven spread. When asked, the boy had merely shrugged and muttered, “I like it,” before turning back to his book. 

Harry had also been reading more often. A lot more often. And he hadn’t really been talking to anyone, either. Ron and Hermione were trying to give him his space, but—

“Now class, we have spent the last two periods discussing the merits of the Vision Quest. The pipes that Professor Sprout—the poor dear—has been so kind to prepare for you will aid in you in your spiritual journey. I want all of those who will be traveling the Misty Beyond today to try to remember your lessons and allow the vision to flow. Partners, it will be your job to closely monitor our wanderers and report to them the physical appearance of their soul’s journey. Now, I want one of you to pick up the pipe and inhale deeply three times.”

Ron eyed the smoking pipe laying on their table warily as Trelawney drifted around the room, simpering in her muted tones as she tried to coax people to smoke the odd-smelling pipes. “So what is this stuff called again?”

Harry looked up from his textbook and grinned faintly at the look of trepidation on his best friend’s face. “Professor Sprout made it. It’s not peyote, but it has the same general affect—minus the days of running about the woods starkers.”

“Riiiiiight . . .” The redhead settled back in his chair and his eyes flickered back to Harry. He briefly felt a twinge of guilt as he watched the other boy read and looked back to the blue smoke that had begun to float about the classroom from the various pipes. Maybe ‘Mione was wrong. Maybe they were going about things poorly . . .

Ron frowned as Harry turned the page. Harry would be the one to go on the Quest today. Next class it would be Ron. The redhead hadn’t wanted it to be that way, but Trelawney had insisted. Personally, Ron didn’t think it was a good idea. He and Hermione would be the ones left to pick up the pieces if something went wrong.

And lately everything had been going wrong. 

Green eyes flickered up to meet blue ones and Harry offered his friend a faint half smile. “Alright?”

Ron grinned in reply and leaned over to whisper conspiratorially to Harry. “So what? We just get hopped up on blue smoke until we see the stuff that we want?”

Harry snickered over the top of his textbook.

“Actually, Mr. Weasley, you rarely see what you want.” Trelawney swooped down onto their table with a bat impression that would have done Snape proud. Her enormous insect-like eyes latched onto Harry and she leaned forward, suffocating them with her heavy perfume. “You rarely see what you want,” she repeated in a misty voice. “But you always see what you need.”

She plucked the pipe off the table and held it out to the green-eyed wizard. “Well, Mr. Potter?”

Ron scowled. “I—”

“Alright.” Harry reached out and took the pipe. He smiled at Ron. “You ready?”

Trelawney turned away to the rest of the class. “Now on the count of three, everyone. One.”

Ron dug out a quill hurriedly as Harry raised the pipe to his lips. “You’re sure about this, mate?”

“Two.”

Harry nodded and exhaled deeply. 

“Three.”

Harry’s eyes fluttered shut. He breathed in deeply; once, twice, three times.

Immediately the world began to sway sickeningly. The perfume in the air was too intense, too cloying, and it felt like his stomach was trying to crawl up his esophagus. The temperature seemed to drop and when he coughed, his chest burned painfully. 

_“You alright, mate? Harry? Harry?!”_

He was spinning—falling.

_Ron?_

Was this supposed to be happening?

_“Harry . . . Professor . . .!”_

Down . . .

Down . . .

Down . . .

Falling . . .

 

 

Harry opened his eyes slowly. 

He was lying on a cold stone floor on his back, stark naked. Above him wheeled a thousand stars, but he couldn’t find any constellations that he knew. A bird cried somewhere in the distance: _“Find me. Find me.”_ There was no moon. The stones of the floor . . . ground were poorly fitted together and dug painfully into his flesh. It was cold and he was somewhat embarrassed to find himself sporting an erection, despite the fact that he didn’t feel the least bit aroused. _So much for the starkers part . . ._

Blushing furiously, Harry pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and looked around cautiously. All that he could see was an uneven field of stones stretching out to the end of his sight. There was no horizon, only a thin line where the starry sky met the ground.

“You are quite late, boy. Hu. Sia. Heka. Nun. Decide.”

Harry jumped at the sound of the voice and whirled around, hands lowered to cover his nudity. He blinked out into the empty night. There was no one there.

“You’re late!” the voice repeated peevishly. It sounded tired. Perhaps it was angry. “Hu. Sia. Heka. Nun. Hurry.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. He knew that voice . . .

“When are you going to learn? We’re running out of time!”

The boy looked around in a fruitless attempt to discover the source of the voice. “Hello?”

“Time! Time!” it continued. Either the speaker couldn’t hear him, or it was ignoring him. “There is no time, boy! Hu. Sia. Heka. Nun. Choose now!” 

Harry turned again and glared at the empty night. “Who’s there?” 

“What will you give, boy? An eye? A hand? Your very life? And for what? Do you think that they will weep for you when you sit by Hel’s hearth? Choose!”

“Who’s there?”

“Well, go on then! I have said my piece! You’ve made your bed; now lie in it. But don’t expect pity from me! Pick the path, if you’ll do nothing else. Hu. Sia. Heka. Nun. Choose while you have a choice, boy.”

“Wait! I don’t understand what you mean!” Harry turned in a slow circle, trying to catch the voice’s owner. “Who are you? _Where_ are you?”

The voice did not answer again and Harry growled in anger, momentarily forgetting his discomfort. He tried to remember what Trelawney said about dream symbolism, but class suddenly seemed distant and unimportant.

 _This is only a dream_ , he reminded himself. A wind blew and, dream or no, it was damn cold against his bare skin. 

Harry shivered, once more mindful of his state of undress, and began to walk. He didn’t recognize any of the constellations and time didn’t seem to move, so he had no idea of where he was going or how far he was walking. He hummed as he went, some old Christmas tune that Aunt Petunia liked to sing every June. Harry didn’t remember all the words, though, and the last line seemed to consistently elude his memory. For some reason that irritated him more than it should have.

Occasionally he heard the bird crying in the distance. _“Find me. Find me.”_ But the wind distorted and carried the sound in such a way that it was impossible to identify the source. There were no trees on which a bird could perch and no clouds in the sky to hide anything, yet the bird’s location remained a mystery. Harry began to sing loudly as he walked, increasingly desperate to drown out the creature’s distant, insistent cries.

“Angels we have heard on high—”

 _“Find me. Find me.”_

“Singing sweetly o’er the plains,”

 _“Find me. Find me.”_

Harry began to sing a bit more loudly. “And the mountains in reply—”

 _“Find me. Find me.”_

“Echoing their . . . something something—”

 _“Find me. Find me.”_

Abruptly Harry stopped, irritated by his lack of progress, his inability to remember the words, and the bird’s insistent cries. 

“Where are you?”

The night did not reply and once more the boy found himself growling in frustration at his apparent isolation. 

“Where are you?” This time his voice was a whisper. The bird still did not respond, but now he knew that that was only because he was talking to himself.

Harry dropped his head and stared blankly at the cracked, starved ground beneath his bare feet. The wind blew once more and he sighed. “I don’t think this stuff is working,” he reported to the earth.

He shivered at another gust and for the briefest instant he thought he heard someone laughing and whisper somewhere nearby. _“I am no easy meat.”_

The sound made his skin crawl and he immediately resumed walking, refusing to look behind him to see if there really was anyone there. “This is only a dream.” 

He didn’t stop again for a long time.

Eventually, though, Harry’s legs began to get tired. His feet hurt. Yet he continued going. Somehow walking seemed better than staying still. He had the distinct impression that staying still would be exceptionally bad. _Trust your instincts,_ he remembered Trelawney’s misty voice saying. So he kept moving. It could have been an hour or a day. In any case, it hardly seemed to matter; the landscape never changed and the sky grew neither lighter nor darker to indicate the end of the night. Finally, the boy stopped, annoyed, and looked around once more, searching for any indication of progress.

It was a futile effort.

“Bloody marvelous Vision Quest this is. I’ve had more fun watching Death Eater meetings.” He flinched as soon as the words left his mouth and the wind blew again as though to chastise him.

“Little boy lost?”

For the second time, Harry jumped in alarm and once again jerked to hide his nudity. This time, however, when he whirled around, there was definitely a name to put to the voice. It was Dumbledore. 

The Headmaster stood a few yards away from him, swathed from head to toe in robes so black, he looked more like a man-shaped hole cut into the night than an actual person. A heavy hood hid his face completely and his hands were tucked into the sleeves of his robes in the old fashion of monks and druids.

“Sir?” Harry squinted and took a step forward, suddenly acutely aware that he did not have his glasses. How had he not noticed that before? “Sir?”

It was terribly cold suddenly.

“Little boy lost?” the old man repeated, hissing slightly.

Harry froze. That was not Dumbledore.

“How,” the figure continued, “do you expect to get there if you don’t know where you’re going?”

The boy swallowed hard. “Voldemort . . .” His body seemed to twist in the wind of its own volition, frantic to conceal itself. It was terribly humiliating to be aroused in front of this man. Harry hadn’t really thought to be embarrassed before, but now he simply wished that the earth would swallow him whole.

“Silly child. Do you know nothing yet?”

The hissing tone to the voice hadn’t vanished, but somehow Harry knew that the man was not Voldemort. Nor was he Dumbledore . . . He was both. And neither. Harry didn’t understand, but he desperately wanted to see the man’s face. For reasons that he didn’t know, it seemed terribly important to recognize this man for what he was. Harry took an uncertain step forward.

The man spoke again, ignoring the boy’s action. “Poor Barabas. Hu. Sia. Heka. Nun. Where are you going, boy? You can only choose one path. Hu. Sia. Heka. Nun. Choose.”

Harry stopped a foot or two away from the man. “Who are you?”

The man seemed to sneer beneath his hood. “Why do you ask me questions, boy, when you are the one with all the answers? Hu. Sia. Heka. Nun. Choose, Barabas.”

Harry’s hands clenched into fists. He’d had enough of this. He wanted to wake up now. “That’s not my name.”

“Does it matter what your name is, boy? Barabas? You are the formless void. Now choose or the choice will be made for you.”

“I don’t understand what you’re asking of me!”

“Hu. Sia. Heka. Nun,” the man repeated. He sounded like he was laughing.

Harry snarled and lunged forward. He half expected the man to jerk away or strike him, but it was shockingly simple to grab the man’s hood and jerk it back to reveal—

Himself.

Harry froze.

The dark-cloaked Harry smiled down at himself, a bizarre parody of human expression, and wrapped his arms around his other self’s waist, pulling the naked boy close. “Poor Barabas. Hu. Sia. Heka. Nun. Choose.”

The other, younger Harry, the Harry who was naked and shivering and lacked the empty, insane deadlights that shone through his twin’s eyes, gaped and tried to pull away in revulsion. “What the hell is this?”

“Choose.”

The man smelled sickening—the cloying, sweet odor of something rotted and decaying. Harry began to struggle wildly, unable to bear that scent or the feel of those cold, clammy arms wrapped around him. “Let me go.” His voice came out as a weak gasp; he couldn’t breathe. “Please . . .”

“Choose.”

A scream began to build within him and the older figure pulled him tighter, his leg sliding between Harry’s in a twisted parody of lust. A shock of pain went through him as the leg came in contact with his genitals.

“Choose . . .” the man hissed and Harry suddenly realized why the other’s voice sounded like hissing and why the other voices had not answered him: he was speaking in parseltongue.

“ _Choose!_ ” the man barked, squeezing him tighter.

“Sirius!” The wail leapt from his lips before he could contain it and Harry’s head tipped back, searching the heavens for a sign that he could not see.

It was cold.

Drawing on nothing but adrenaline, Harry kneed his alter-image in the groin, suddenly thankful for all the experience Dudley had given him when it came to escaping. The creature shrieked and threw him down, immediately crumpling into a protective ball. Harry stumbled back, unable to stand again, but frantic to escape this horrid creature that was not—could _not_ —be him. 

“There is a snake within your belly, boy,” the man hissed suddenly from his position on the ground. A gnarled hand snaked out and grabbed his ankle.

“Let me go!” 

“There is a snake in your belly, boy,” it snarled again. “And he is trying to get out.”

“Let _me **go**_!!!” Harry kicked viciously at the thing’s head, only the face that snapped up to glare at him was no longer his own.

It was Petunia Dursley. And she was painted like a circus clown. 

Harry took one look at that face (which had never seemed as cruel or insane as it did right then) and lashed out. There was no grace or skill involved; he fought like a wild animal cornered, with teeth and claws, and snarls and as soon as the grip on his ankle let up, he fled. Harry stumbled to his feet and ran blindly into the night, not daring to look behind him, lest he see that awful, bloated face coming in pursuit. The air smelled sickeningly like sugar, rot, and burnt bacon fat.

“ _Harry?_ ”

 _Wakeupwakeupwakeup._

Tea and roses. Wormwood and soot.

“ _Harry!_ ”

 _Wakeupwakeupwakeup._ He couldn’t focus like Dumbledore had taught him and it was so cold and he couldn’t concentrate and Trelawney had lied and he couldn’t wake up and—

Arms wrapped around his waist, lifting him up off the ground in mid stride. His back impacted hard with a strong, unyielding chest and the fetid scent of death gave way to blood, chamomile, and peaches.

Severus.

All Harry’s resistance melted and his panic gave way to an exhausted kind of relief as he slumped backwards. “Anhur.” He meant to say ‘Severus,’ but all that he could think was ‘Anhur.’

“Anhur. Anhur,” he whispered breathlessly as leaned back into the comfort of familiar dark robes. 

He pulled himself out of his Professor’s grip and whirled around to embrace the older man. He felt something cold and metal press into his left hand and a strange, biting warmth pooled in his stomach as he threw himself forward, but by this point in time he simply didn’t _care_. Severus was here. With him. And he wasn’t angry anymore.

Something hard was between them, preventing the embrace. Harry pulled back slightly and looked down, bewildered. Clutched tight in his left hand was the hilt the Sword of Gryffindor. The blade was buried in Severus’s abdomen. 

“Wha . . .” A choked moan left Harry as he stared down at the bloody length of silver. Panicked green eyes looked up, desperately seeking Severus, but instead of finding the hard, familiar planes and bold, over accentuated angles of the man’s face, Severus appeared pale and waxen.

Harry whimpered. The hand holding the Sword refused to let go. “I . . . I don’t . . .”

Severus lifted an eyebrow and his lips twitched towards what could have been a smile. “It’s alright. I’ll take care of you.” A long, potions-stained hand raised to gently brush his cheek. As the fingers touched his skin, they turned to dust.

 _Severus_ turned to dust.

“Anhur!”

“I’ve got you.” The wind blew again and before the words had even fully left his mouth, the other man dissolved into an angry cloud that spread itself across the plains. 

The green-eyed teen stared, shocked.

 _“I’ve got you.”_ Severus’s words hung in the air like an epitaph. 

“No . . .” The sword clattered to the ground. His hand was covered in blood. Harry looked down with a distant growing horror. He was bleeding. Badly. The sword had pierced Severus, but he had stabbed himself. 

Thick red blood flowed steadily down his front, over his now lax penis, and soaked into the dusty gray stones. Severus was a part of that dust . . .

A sigh left Harry’s lips, taking the sound of a quiet “Oh . . .” and his legs folded gracefully beneath him.

Severus was a part of that dust. He didn’t mind so much, knowing that.

As he fell to the ground, suddenly, insignificantly, the forgotten line from the Christmas carol came back to him. _Gloria in Excelsis Deo._

_Hu. Sia. Heka. Nun._

And then everything melted into darkness.

  
**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**   


Draco started awake as he heard footsteps and voices entering the hospital wing. The motion sent an agonizing throb through his head, but he barely took notice of it. With Crabbe and Goyle as Beaters and Draco occupied with finding the Snitch, accidents were bound to happen. Eventually, one even got used to them.

The sound grew more distinct as Draco shook off the final layers of sleep and sat up in his enclosed bed. 

“Good heavens! What happened?” Madame Pomfrey demanded.

“We don’t know!” The Weasely. “We followed all the instructions—”

“Step back, boy, back! He’s going into convulsions!” 

Shuffling. Footsteps. The sound of a gurney being wheeled somewhere. Choked gasps. Bottles clinking. And then . . .

“ _ANHUR!!!_ ”

Draco cringed at the cry. It was a sound of mourning: the cry of one utterly bereft and torn by anguish. His mother had sobbed like that when his father had been imprisoned and she thought he was asleep. He hated the sound.

“What’s wrong with him?” The Weasel once more. 

Draco stood, swaying slightly beneath a wave of dizziness, and gently pushed aside the hospital curtain to peer out. Weasley and a girl that Draco barely recognized were hovering anxiously near a bed. They blocked the blond’s sight of the occupant, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that Potter was now the infirmary’s latest guest.

“Run and get Professor Snape, boy! Tell him I need him to tailor a HemoPurge potion to Potter immediately. And don’t you let Filch get in your way!”

“But—”

“Now!” the petite mediwitch barked. 

Weasley took off at record speed and Madame Pomfrey continued to putter around the bed that held Potter’s thrashing form. The girl who had accompanied the two Gryffindors was whimpering pathetically. 

After securing Potter to the gurney, Pomfrey looked up at the young woman with a tight expression of anger. “Ms. Patel, you will go fetch that . . . that _woman_ from her tower and you will bring both her and the Headmaster down here immediately.”

Patel shuddered as though she was about to fall over. “But, Madam Pomfrey, Professor Trelawney—”

“Is a menace!” the older woman snapped. “Every year, sobbing Third Years coming to me in a panic! Now this? I will not stand for it! You will bring her down here along with Headmaster Dumbledore and she will face up to this! **NOW**!”

Draco couldn’t contain his amusement as the girl squeaked in fear and tore out of the hospital wing at a dead run. He had never seen Pomfrey so worked up, even when that idiot Lockheart had removed Potter’s bones. Whatever had happened must have put a real bee in her bonnet.

The door to the hospital wing opened with a bang and Snape swirled in, looking intensely irritated. Weasley came skulking in behind him, his face a pasty white color. Snape was scowling thunderously, and he immediately made his way to Potter’s bedside. Draco’s eyes narrowed at the furious expression on the other man’s face.

“What happened?” his Head of House demanded, his deep voice rolling in a way that simply demanded attention. He took in a sharp breath when he looked down at the Gryffindor.

At last Madame Pomfrey moved, allowing Draco a clear view of Potter’s face. The normally pale skin had a strange bluish hue and Potter’s breath came in a wispy, choked gasps. His lips were parted and the tip of his tongue protruded slightly as though it was too large for his mouth. A thin sheen of sweat covered his face, augmenting his deathly pallor, and strange red welts with white centers had arisen on the boy’s skin. Madame Pomfrey had secured his arms to the bed so that he could not thrash about and cause himself harm.

Weasely apparently had also caught sight of Potter because he immediately made an odd choking noise.

Madame Pomfrey didn’t even turn around to look at him. “Return to your Common Room, Mr. Weasley.”

“But—”

Snape turned on him with a snarl. “Fifty points from Gryffindor. Go!” 

Draco would have given a good deal to see the man’s expression because Weasely took one look and shot out of the hospital wing once more. Snape wheeled around to the busy mediwitch and favored her with a particularly frightful glare. “Poppy, what happened?” he snapped, sounding more agitated than usual.

“What happened,” the mediwitch fairly snarled, “was that charlatan, that’s what happened! She sent him into anaphylactic shock, _that’s_ what happened!” She grabbed hold of one of Potter’s arms and pressed a small glass vial against the vein. “Did you bring the potion? Get me that anti-inflammatory over there,” she demanded, nodding towards a corner before Snape could reply. “His tongue and lips have swollen. How much blood do you need?” 

Snape moved over to the cabinet and fished out a blue potion with surprising speed. “Yes. And an ounce and a quarter.”

Pomfrey muttered a spell and the little vial in her hand began to fill with blood. Snape set the anti-inflammatory down and removed a small Erlenmeyer flask filled with a clear fluid from his robes. He tugged off the stopper, poured in the vial of blood that Pomfrey thrust at him, and watched with a critical eye as the mixture immediately turned a sickly green color. While he swirled the fluid about in the flask, Pomfrey set about trying to coax some of the anti-inflammatory into Potter’s swollen mouth and down his throat without choking him. 

Snape moved to the head of the bed and pressed a hand against Potter’s forehead to keep him still. “He’s cold.”

“He’s in shock,” Madame Pomfrey responded curtly. “Stupid woman. Prop him up very gently for me, Severus. I don’t need him to asphyxiate on us. Careful now! That’s right . . .”

The Potions Master obeyed, settling down on the bed so that he could better support the small figure in his arms. Draco avidly watched the drama through his barely parted curtains. Gently, Pomfrey coaxed the blue fluid down Potter’s throat with a minimum of gasps and choking. A bit of the sapphire colored mix slipped down the teen’s cheeks and chin to stain the bed and Snape’s robes. The older man seemed not to notice, completely absorbed in the pinched, sickly face resting on his chest.

“That’s a good lad,” Madame Pomfrey cooed to the unconscious boy. Once she was satisfied with the amount Potter had swallowed, she moved to the foot of the bed and propped up his feet.

“Stay there, Severus!” she snapped when the man shifted. 

Snape frowned. “Is it safe enough to wake him to take the HemoPurge?”

“It’s safer than letting him suffocate on the fluid building up in his lungs.” She whipped out her wand, ignoring the ferocious glare her colleague leveled at her, and pointed it at Potter. “Enervate.”

The boy shifted feebly and Snape held stock-still. Draco leaned forward a bit, parting the curtain a bit wider so that he could watch Potter’s swollen green eyes flutter open painfully and lock with Snape’s.

“Anhur?”

Snape blinked, looking perplexed at his student’s words. Pomfrey bustled up, once more blocking Draco’s view. 

“He’s delirious,” she said as she pressed the flask against Potter’s lips. “Drink,” she ordered when it looked as though her patient were struggling. 

“Anhur . . .”

Snape gripped Potter a bit more securely and shifted so that Draco could no longer see his face. “Drink it, Potter. It will make you feel better.”

There were a few more moments of silence as Pomfrey poured the potion down Potter’s throat.

Just as Madame Pomfrey stood upright again, the door opened once more to admit Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor Trelawney. The Divinations professor was pale and agitated looking, her hair appearing haphazard from rushing down from her tower, her shawl and numerous beads in disarray. Dumbledore entered at her heels, for once looking less than effervescent. 

Shockingly blue eyes latched onto the bed that Draco occupied and stared at the young Slytherin’s hiding spot. Draco froze, painfully embarrassed that his spying had been discovered, and Dumbledore smiled at him gently. The blond immediately closed his curtains and slipped back into bed. He lay down quietly, careful to make no sound.

“Is he alright?” he heard Dumbledore ask.

“No thanks to her,” snarled Pomfrey. Draco could only imagine the expression on the matronly woman’s face. “If it wasn’t for Severus—”

“I did nothing wrong!” Trelawney broke in shrilly. She sounded oddly the way she had when Umbridge had tried to cast her out. “He was fine when we tested the mix and his records—”

“Allergies rarely manifest on the first exposure,” raged Pomfrey in response. “And his records are incomplete. I _told_ you—”

“Now, now, now, ladies,” interrupted Dumbledore in a soothing voice, “perhaps we had best move this to my office—”

“The only other student here is a Seeker who took a bludger to the head during practice, Headmaster, and he’ll be out for at least another—”

“Still,” the man insisted in a no-nonsense tone, “I must insist that we do not disturb the students’ rest. Severus?”

Snape, who had remained strangely silent until now, didn’t answer immediately. Draco desperately wished he could see what the man was doing.

“Is everything well?” Dumbledore asked.

“Quite, Headmaster,” Snape responded coolly. It sounded as though he had moved. “Shall I . . .?” His voice trailed off suggestively and Draco gripped his bedclothes, frustrated with his inability to figure out what was happening.

“That’s quite alright, my boy,” Dumbledore responded congenially. “Thank you for your aid. Ladies, if you will please follow me?”

There was the sound of footsteps and then the door opened and closed, leaving Draco alone in silence. After a few more moment, the blond Slytherin arose from bed and crept towards the curtain again. When he eased them aside, he was shocked to see that Snape was still there. 

The Potions Master was standing next to Potter’s bed, staring down at the boy with an expression as intense as any Draco had ever seen the man wear. One pale, stained hand was resting on Potter’s forehead, the thumb gently gliding back and forth over the famous scar. Draco stared, hardly daring to breath, lest he be discovered. The hand on Potter’s face lifted after a moment and Snape turned to gently pull the covers over Potter’s thin body. 

Suddenly coal black eyes snapped up and bore into Draco. Snape straightened, his face completely devoid of emotion and his hands frozen in place where they were adjusting Potter’s covers more comfortably. The Slytherin hesitated under his professor’s gaze and then lifted the curtain fully, revealing himself to the older man. He felt terribly awkward to be in his hospital clothes under the Snape’s unforgiving stare.

“Mr. Malfoy.” It was an acknowledgement—nothing more, nothing less.

“Sir.”

For a long moment the two stared at one another across the room, neither willing to break eye contact. Finally Draco looked away, ashamed of the weakness but unable to bear the man’s scrutiny a moment longer. Satisfied with his victory, Snape smoothed the covers seemingly without noticing and walked around Potter’s bed. His black robes swirled menacingly about him as he strode towards his student. Draco seemed to cringe slightly, barely resisting the urge to shy back, and looked back up as the man approached. Black eyes locked onto silver ones and they stared at one another once more for a moment. Then a potion-stained hand reached out and closed the curtain again, effectively shutting Draco out again. 

Draco swallowed hard and lay back down. The door closed quietly a moment later and for a long while afterward Draco stared at the crisp, white curtains and wondered.

  


**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**  



	4. The Khurban

**  
Where the Heart Moves the Stone**  
 _~ Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc ~_  
\- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
10.7.2003

**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**~ Chapter Three ~  
The Khurban**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

“And when thou art spoiled, what wilst thou do?  
Though thou clothest thyself with crimson,  
though thou deckest thee with ornaments of gold,  
though thou rentest thy face with painting,  
in vain shalt thou make thyself fair;  
thy lovers will despise thee, thy will seek thy life.  
For I have heard a voice as of a woman in travail,  
and the anguish of her that bringest forth her first child,  
the voice of the daughter of Zion,  
that bewaileth herself, that spreadeth her hands, saying,  
Woe is me now! for my soul is wearied because of murderers.”  
\- Jeremiah 4:30 & 31

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**

_“A_ re you quite sure you’re feeling well, my boy?”

Harry smiled up at his mentor, a slightly pained expression. Truth be told, he had felt rather dizzy all day and was actually looking forward to returning to the peace of the hospital wing tonight, despite all the fuss he’d made to attend classes. 

One of Professor Dumbledore’s bushy eyebrows lifted at the obviously false smile. “Now, Harry—” the old man began.

The green-eyed teen shook his head and pushed himself up from where he’d been leaning on the desk. “I’m alright, sir. Honest. Just let me rest a moment . . .”

Dumbledore watched him for a moment in silence, his piercing blue eyes taking in everything from the pale complexion to the shallow breathing. The old man sighed quietly, lowered his wand, and walked around to his desk. He gingerly lowered his frame into the velvet-lined high-backed seat. Harry sighed heavily at the look on the Headmaster’s face. It was the “Let’s Have a Talk, Child” look. After three months of Occlumency lessons, Harry knew that look well. 

“Sit down, Harry.”

For a moment the boy simply looked at him as though debating what to do. Albus frowned sadly. “Please?”

Harry closed his eyes and turned away as he sat. 

For a long moment there was nothing but silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the dull clicking of a clock that Harry couldn’t locate. Albus knew by now that tea and cookies would not assuage Harry, so he made no move to offer them.

The Headmaster sighed. Dealing with Harry Potter was something akin to grasping an ice cube: the tighter he held on, the more the boy seemed to slip through his hands. He had hoped to have a successor in the headstrong boy, but now that was looking less and less likely. Voldemort’s rebirth was unanticipated, as were Cedric’s and Sirius’s deaths. Both had impacted his protégé much harder than he would have wished. Harry was too young for the pain that bowed his shoulders—too young to carry the burdens placed on him. 

This was something Albus understood intimately, something that he himself had dealt with in his own youth. He would have spared Harry that if he could have, but such things were not to be. And now Voldemort was back and with every passing year, Harry’s chance of survival seemed to lessen. Should Voldemort succeed in killing Harry, Albus did not believe he’d long outlive his Golden Boy. He did not believe he’d want to.

The old man frowned at the youth’s profile. The light of the fire cast weird shadows over Harry’s face and Albus felt a distinct pull at his heart. 

No.

He had not lied to the boy—he loved Harry like a grandson. And he would do everything possible to see that the child survived this war. There were too many casualties in this war already; Harry would not become one as well. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow that to happen. Ever. Harry Potter _would_ succeed him. 

He had failed Tom; he would not fail another—especially not this child who had somehow managed to find a place in his heart. It had been a very long time since Albus had had anyone whom he could sincerely look upon as family and he would not give it up so easily. He would not fail Harry, _or_ Harry Potter again. The boy could not be allowed to die. No matter what.

“Are you still angry with me, Harry?”

Avada Kedavra green eyes stared at him for a moment before looking away. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

“Really?” the boy murmured, gazing into the flames.

Albus closed his eyes sadly. “Harry . . . My dear child . . . Is there nothing I can do to make you forgive me?” It was not the first time he’d asked that question. It would not be the last.

The boy turned and frowned at the Headmaster. Something inside Albus ached at the dark smudges beneath his eyes. “Why does it matter so much to you?” He didn’t sound angry—just weary. “I’m doing what you want, aren’t I? I’m learning Occlumency. I’ve been studying more like you said I should. What more do you want?”

The old man pursed his lips unhappily. “I want you forgive me.”

“Why?” Harry demanded again.

“Because I care.”

This response only earned him a slightly skeptical look. Harry turned back to the fire.

Albus tried again. “I worry about you.”

“You worry about the cause. Or is that merely the same thing now?”

“They’re not the same thing, child,” the old man replied with genuine earnestness. “They never were. I _do_ care for you, Harry. You. Not the hero and not the legend. Just you.”

Harry still did not look away from the fireplace. “Hmph.” The reflection of the fire danced on the surface of his glasses, obscuring his eyes. “I’ll do what you want,” he said lowly after an instant. “But don’t act like you’re doing this for me, okay? I . . . I don’t really mind . . . not if you don’t act like you’re doing this for me. It’s for the cause. I get that. But don’t keep on acting like you care about me. It’s stupid.”

Again, not angry—simply tired.

So tired.

For a moment the two were silent, Harry watching the flames and Albus watching Harry.

Albus settled back in his chair. He looked older than he was, more worn down by his years than even he should be. Harry did not look away from the fire. Fawkes, who had watched the entire exchange in silence, alit from his perch to settle on the back of the Headmaster’s chair. An aged hand rose and stroked the bird’s red plumage.

“Harry . . .” The boy stiffened and Albus broke off, looking frustrated. 

“Don’t,” the Gryffindor said to the flames. “You’ve used Legumens on me. You’ve seen it all. You don’t need to ask me these questions, do you?”

The old man leaned forward a bit, but made no other movement. “Will you not tell me what is troubling you then, child?”

Those green eyes turned back to him and watched him once more in their sad silence. Finally Harry released a huffing little sigh. “It’s my problem. You can’t help me with it.”

Albus nodded in acceptance. Just like holding ice. He opened his mouth to say something, but the door suddenly opened to reveal a rather flustered looking McGonagall. The Head of Gryffindor was leaning heavily on her cane, a sure sign that she was distressed. It was a well-known fact that the Transfigurations professor hated the cane with a passion and she only carried it with her when it was absolutely necessary. 

The woman dashed into the room breathlessly, seemingly unaware of Harry. “Albus, that idiot is at it again! I swear, if he didn’t learn his lesson after that debacle at the Department of Myst—”

The Headmaster cleared his throat suddenly, interrupting her. “Now, Minerva . . . I’m sure it can’t be that serious. Won’t you join us for tea?”

Bluish gray eyes flickered to Harry and Professor McGonagall blushed slightly. “Potter.” She smiled tensely. “I’m sorry. I forgot that this was your teatime.”

Teatime. The Order’s official euphemism for “Keep Potter Sane and On Our Side” time. Harry was not stupid. He knew what could happen if he failed to master Occlumency. So far, he’d learned little and was beginning to wonder if he’d ever master the damnable art. The Headmaster said that he had a block. All he knew was that the whole process just gave him migraines. 

Harry offered the Deputy Headmistress a tense smile of his own in response. “It’s alright, ma’am. Really.”

McGonagall turned back to the Headmaster. “May I borrow you for a moment then?”

“Of course. Harry?”

The boy nodded his assent. 

The old man rose with a blinding smile and made his way around his desk with surprising grace. He paused at Harry’s chair and gently placed hand on the young Gryffindor’s shoulder. Sterling blue eyes locked onto vivid green ones. “If you are having a difficult time, you may want to make a list.”

Harry blinked in confusion. “Make a list?”

The old man smiled a small, genuine smile just for him. “Yes. A list of the good things and the bad things to help you sort matters out.”

“The good things and the bad things?” Harry’s lips thinned in suspicion. “Do you know what my problem is, sir?”

“We can only truly know what we see or are told, child.”

“And what have you seen?”

For a moment the two simply stared at one another in silence. Then Albus gently squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “I see something that could be everything. If such things are allowed.” 

The boy’s eyes widened and his jaw went a bit slack. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “A—are . . . such things allowed?”

Albus smiled and squeezed his shoulder once more. “I should not be gone long. I trust you will not go poking about where you should not, Harry.” His eyes twinkled brightly as he said this, as though attempting to brand the significance of the words onto the boy’s soul.

“Albus, the Minister . . .” McGonagall prodded gently. Her sharp eyes flickered between the boy and the old man quizzically, but she said nothing. Whatever problems Albus and Potter had were theirs to iron out, and she had been told with no small amount of firmness that this was one affair in which she had no say.

Albus stood. “Of course, Professor McGonagall. Lead on, my dear.”

Harry watched in silence as the old man smiled again and left, speaking to his deputy headmistress in hushed tones as he went.

 _A list?_ Green eyes narrowed as he turned the Headmaster’s words over in his mind. 

He still had not forgiven Dumbledore for what had happened last year and this summer. In all honesty, he didn’t know if he _could_ forgive the man. He hid too much—kept Harry in the dark too much. It was obvious though that his rejection hurt Dumbledore, even if he never said anything to that affect. Still, Harry didn’t know whether that downcast look was real or an act. And he didn’t much care to find out one way or another.

Every week they had “tea” and every week Dumbledore tried to regain his trust. It was enough to drive a person mad. Even if Harry had wanted to come to terms with the conniving old man before the so-called Incident at Privet Drive—which he had not—he most certainly was in no mood to do so afterwards. Harry shuddered at the memory of what had happened at his relations’ house and suddenly felt cold. 

He hadn’t lost his temper since that day. Dumbledore said that no one would know—that it was up to him who to tell, if anyone. Dumbledore and Moody promised that everything would be okay and that there wouldn’t be any uncomfortable questions. So far he’d kept his promises, but Harry wasn’t stupid: one day, he’d have to pay the piper, and what then? He shuddered again and rubbed his arms through his sleeves. He wished he’d thought to ask the Headmaster to turn up the fire. 

Dumbledore had promised him that everything would be alright. Dumbledore had promised him that he would never, ever, _ever_ , have to go back there . . .

But if the old man really did know about what had happened with Snape, would he keep his word? Harry knew that he wouldn’t survive very long in Azkaban . . . He’d go mad in days. Would Dumbledore really let the Ministry send his Golden Boy to prison—even if he wasn’t so golden? And then there was the prophecy to contend with. He doubted that the Headmaster would be willing to relinquish him until Voldemort was dead.

Harry bit his lip and suddenly—stupidly—wished that Severus were there . . . if only to distract him from these questions.

Dumbledore had promised that everything would be okay.

But _did_ Dumbledore know about Snape? Harry couldn’t imagine the Potions Master had told him anything. Snape would have been out on his ear faster than a Malfoy could say “money.” Or maybe the Headmaster wasn’t willing to lose his spy so soon. Was Snape just like Harry—another pawn in this game to be pushed around by two stubborn old men until he ceased to be useful?

No. Harry would not forgive Dumbledore. If not for himself or Sirius, then for Severus. And for his parents. And for Cedric. And even for the Durselys.

The boy worried his lower lip for a few more minutes, staring blankly down at his hands. 

He missed Severus.

And that was so stupid because he had never even known the man long enough to miss him. He _still_ didn’t know the man. And he didn’t know if he wanted to, either. 

_Make a list._

The boy fidgeted in his seat and turned to stare at Fawkes. The phoenix had returned to his perch at some point in time and had tucked his magnificent head beneath a wing, asleep. The portraits on the wall dozed in both real and feigned slumber. Phineas had yet to be in his portrait when Harry was in the office. The Potter heir was fairly certain that the Headmaster had something to do with that, but he couldn’t summon the energy to be angry. Anger only got him into trouble. Besides, he doubted he could handle the sharp-tongued Black patriarch right then.

A list.

What would it hurt, really?

The Headmaster had only been gone for over five minutes, and, knowing Fudge, would be gone longer still. The boy bent down and dug about in his satchel for a quill, ink, and a scroll. Instead he found a sheet of loose-leaf and a ballpoint. They’d do. He carefully cleared a space on the Headmaster’s desk and scooted his chair closer so that he could write.

 _The good things and the bad things . . .?_ The boy went to tap the edge of the pen against his chin and frowned when he realized that the Muggle writing tool was too short. Suddenly uncomfortable with the ballpoint, Harry dug about in his bag once more with a growl. This time his search was much more successful and he retrieved his favorite battered eagle feather quill and an inkwell of blue ink. He opened the well, dipped the quill tip in, and hunched over the desk as he began his list.

The good and the bad. Him and Severus . . .

The invisible clock ticked loudly as he wrote. 

 

__________ _________  
.Strong  
.Fierce  
.Brave  
.Protective  
.Safe  
.Proud  
.Brilliant  
.Powerful  
.Eyes  
.Hands  
.Cheekbones  
.Understands?  
.Relentless  
.Honorable?  
.Sees me  
.Reformed?  
.Him  
.Me 

 

_________-_________  
Cruel  
Arrogant  
Stubborn  
Secretive  
Unfair  
Petty  
Always has to be right  
Childish  
Liar  
Hair  
Nose  
Merciless  
Pitiless  
Unforgiving  
Blind  
DE  
Marauders  
Me?  
Hides things  
Age  
Sarcastic  
Angry  
Impatient  
Manipulative  
Belittling  
Position  
Threats / Intimidation  
Risk  
Him

 

When he couldn’t think of anything else, Harry sat up and stared at his list with a dark frown. The list of cons was noticeably longer than the pros. His green eyes flickered back and forth to the ends of each column. 

_Him. Me. Me? Him._

All the other things aside, that was what it boiled down to in the end. Snape and Harry and Harry and Snape. Those were honestly both the best and worst reasons he could find for them to . . . to . . . try.

Try what exactly, he wasn’t certain, but he knew that he wanted to give it a go.

It was different with Snape. He couldn’t quantify _what_ was different, but, stupid as it was, that strange embrace . . . that press of lips, it had changed something. And it sounded so dumb when he thought of it like that, but it couldn’t be avoided. Even when the man was giving him hell, there was something about it that made Harry feel more . . . alive. It was . . . fun . . . in a strange way. If something like that could be called fun.

Harry nibbled on the tip of his quill. 

It was unique. It was just something that Harry wanted. He didn’t _need_ it. It wasn’t like air or water or food. It was . . . a different kind of want. It was like when he wasn’t hungry, but he still wanted food. Or he wasn’t thirsty, but he still wanted something to drink. He had air, but it wasn’t enough.

He wanted Snape.

He didn’t understand it. He couldn’t explain it. Even thinking about trying to figure it out was enough to give him a migraine, but he _wanted Snape_. 

Not for sex. Not even for a shoulder to cry on. He wanted him—the whole greasy, snarky, angry, loveless package.

The quill slid out of his fingers. He didn’t notice. 

Snape. The greasy bastard. But that was a while other issue, wasn’t it? 

The man was so . . . cruel. And mean. And unfair. And _bitter_ . . . But weren’t those the things Harry liked best about him? After all, if they were going to do . . . this . . . then he had to be in it one hundred percent. He couldn’t just pick and choose those parts that he liked and ignore all the rest. Snape was . . . well, he wasn’t attractive. And he certainly was not pleasant by any stretch of the imagination. But he was . . . safe.

Yes. 

That was definitely the best word for it. Snape was safe. If he was attracted to Harry, then he was attracted to Harry, not some god-construct designed by Dumbledore and the Daily Prophet. And if he thought Harry was worth his . . . _whatever_ . . ., then he genuinely thought that Harry was worth it. Snape was not a man for useless romantic sentiment. And Harry just _liked_ being with Snape. The man was brilliant and funny (once you got past the snark), and strong and proud. He was not the type of person to be railroaded into doing things. Harry could no more sway Snape than he could uproot the Whomping Willow with his bare hands. 

But, best of all, Snape neither needed nor wanted a savior. He seemed to be perfectly happy to dig himself out of his rut all on his own. Even with ‘Mione and Ron, or in the dorms, or just sitting in class, he could _feel_ people watching him. Waiting. Expecting. Judging. It was almost as though they thought they’d miss him killing Voldemort if they blinked. And it was obvious that they _did_ expect him to defeat Voldemort, something that Harry found absolutely ludicrous since most of them couldn’t even say the Dark Lord’s name without nearly wetting themselves.

_Bred in captivity._

Harry scowled down at his parchment. But wasn’t that another reason not to get involved with Snape? All those eyes watching him? The world, Harry had recently decided, amounted to little more than a pack of ravenous dogs chasing him down; they would tear him apart the moment he so much as stumbled. And after Voldemort, if he survived—a very, very, very big ‘if’—what would happen to him?

_“Death Eater Takes Advantage of Boy-Who-Lived-To-Kill-You-Know-Who.”_

Or, better yet: _“Boy-Who-Lived Replaces You-Know-Who and Takes Death Eater Professor as Lover.” The story on page three!!_

 _That_ would look bloody marvelous on the front page.

And then there was the other thing. Severus was a man. Harry was a man . . . or at least he would be soon . . . What did that make “them”—if Severus ever let there be a “them.”

Was he gay? 

The boy frowned down at the unresponsive parchment. 

He had never thought about that. Ever. . . . How was he supposed to know? Yes, he liked Snape sexually. He dreamt of Snape . . . a lot. But he had liked Cho Fourth Year. Not that he was worried about her—whatever they might have had was long-since gone. She still had trouble meeting his eyes the few times he saw her. Besides, even before Snape, after those awkward meetings in Hogsmead and that fight at the end of the term . . . It was simply too awkward; there was too much history there. And now there was Snape. Even though Cho still made him feel all muddled up sometimes when he saw her, what he felt for Snape was . . . different. It was like comparing a candle to a blowtorch. 

Just how did the wizarding world deal with homosexuality? He had never heard anything about it . . . it was never mentioned in the dorms, or in classes. Even the dirtier insults were more likely to be based on sex with a killmoulis or something instead of gay people. Was it not talked about because it was wrong? Was Harry wrong for feeling the way he did about Snape? Or was it not talked about because it was okay? Did people even care?

He picked up his quill and began to run the end back and forth across his lips in agitation.

The more Harry thought about this, the more confused he got. He didn’t _feel_ gay . . . although he didn’t exactly know if one was supposed to feel gay. Did straight feel different? And, again, what about Cho? Did that make him bi-sexual or something? How was he supposed to know what being gay was like anyway? Did just liking Snape make him gay? He wasn’t attracted to any of the other boys he could think of. Seamus was kinda cute, but he was a total prat. Neville was just . . . no. The twins were alright, he supposed. Draco was gorgeous, of course, but you’d have to be blind, deaf, and a complete moron not to see that. Shame he was such a little snot. But none of them made him feel the way Snape did.

Cho came close. The memory of her smooth skin and long, silky hair still made his stomach feel like it was a Snitch that didn’t want to be caught. But Snape . . . Snape made him . . . _want_. Snape made him—

Harry blushed and dropped his head in misery as exactly how Snape made him feel was made readily apparent by the tightening of his trousers. He shifted uncomfortably and sat back up, staring at the list while absently chewing the bedraggled end of his quill. 

Harry’s experience with sex was limited to the time Dean Thomas had pinched his bum last year and the wet, sloppy Christmas kiss with Cho in Room of Requirement. Though he still blushed sometimes when Dean looked at him, and he’d always cherish his first kiss, neither was anywhere close to what Snape made him feel. When Snape kissed him . . .

Harry was on fire. _The world_ was on fire. When Snape kissed him, Harry knew that at that instant, he was all the man saw, knew, felt, and wanted. Snape could make Harry burn just by _looking_ at him . . . And Merlin help him in Potion’s Class because that voice never failed to conjure fantasies of that late night lab visit at the start of term. Only this time, Harry didn’t run. Harry stayed like he should have that first night and Snape would pick him up and sweep all that stuff off the lab table in one of those big, dramatic gestures the man was so fond of and throw him down and tear at his clothes and—

Harry groaned. These thoughts were _not_ helping . . . And while the fantasy was nice and, along with silencing charms, had kept him company almost every night since September, the reality was different. He _wanted_ Snape to do all those things to him again, to touch him like that again, but every time he thought of it—really, truly thought of it—a cold lump seemed to settle in the pit of his stomach. 

He liked it when Snape touched him, but he just couldn’t get around the fact that he didn’t like to be touched. People simply didn’t touch him. The Dursleys had never touched him in any way that made him eager to repeat the experience and, every time they did, they immediately wiped their hands, as though he was some sort of filth to be cleaned off their nice, normal skin immediately. Mrs. Weasely hugged him sometimes, but he never quite knew what to do when it happened. Dumbledore would put an arm around his shoulder occasionally, but Harry had never felt comfortable with the camaraderie that entailed. Ron and ‘Mione were the closest thing he had to siblings, but unless he was caught up in the moment, he still found himself shrugging off their embraces and hand pats. He didn’t know why, he just didn’t particularly like people touching him.

Snape was a man. And, if what happened in the lab was any indication, he expected certain things. He certainly would not be willing to twiddle his thumbs because Harry had hang ups.

The quill fell to the paper with a dull noise. “I am such a head case.”

A sudden bark of laughter startled the boy and he jumped, his elbow hit the desk top hard and ink spilled all over his list. Harry jumped to his feet to avoid the dark liquid as it spilled over the edge of the desk and onto the floor. “Bugger!”

“Such a mouth, Mr. Potter,” cackled an all too familiar voice. “Having problems, are we?”

The boy glared at the battered Sorting Hat and dug a thoroughly rumpled and poorly used handkerchief out from his robes. “Don’t you ever have anything useful to say?”

If a hat could look offended, the Sorting Hat managed to look positively wounded. “Now, now,” clucked the headgear. It turned the creases on its front that mimicked eyes down to the boy and ‘watched’ him critically. “No need to be so testy. And I always say useful things . . . for those who care to listen.”

Harry harrumphed and returned to cleaning up the ink as best he could. Thankfully none of Dumbledore’s papers or trinkets had been harmed.

“You know,” the Hat began again after a moment, “you _are_ supposed to be a wizard, dear child. They have spells for such things.”

Harry shot the creature another glare and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “belt up” as he removed his wand. A cleaning spell later, the mess was gone.

The Sorting Hat crowed in triumph. “You see, Mr. Potter! I can be useful. Now do stop being so stubborn and come over here.”

“Why?” Harry shoved his now-empty inkwell and stained quill back in his bag. “So you can spy on me for Dumbledore, too?”

“I should think not.” The Hat sounded miffed. “I have kept the secrets of Hogwarts secret for over a thousand years, child. I doubt that you have anything in your pretty little head that could make me change that.”

Harry rose from packing his bag and stalked over to the Hat’s stand, his fists on his hips. “You told him you wanted me in Slytherin,” he accused.

The Hat’s reply was even more affronted than the previous one: “I did not. Albus is smarter than that. Besides, it’s obvious for anyone who cares to look.”

“Snape doesn’t know,” the boy muttered mutinously under his breath.

“Severus Snape,” the enchanted Hat declared matter-of –factly, “can be quite a fool when he wants to be. One of the most frustrating First Years I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. And quite rude, too! Absolutely insisted on Ravenclaw—not that it did him a bit of good. Now stop pouting and let’s have a look-see.”

Harry blinked, surprised by the information. “Ravenclaw? I thought you said that you kept people’s secrets.”

“That’s hardly a secret,” the Hat replied dismissively. “Poor Flitwick actually came up and tried to convince Albus to re-Sort him. I wouldn’t, of course. He needed to be in Slytherin, so Slytherin was where he stayed. Ravenclaw would not have been good for him.”

The boy stared in disbelief and his mind flickered back to the ugly brand he’d seen on the man’s arm at the end of fourth year. “And Slytherin _was_ good for him?”

The Hat managed to look sickeningly smug.

“Why did he need to be in Slytherin?”

“Now _that_ , child, _is_ a secret. Now put me on.”

Before Harry quite knew what he was doing, he reached up, pulled down the Hat and dropped it over his eyes. Immediately he felt the Hat’s magic poking about in head, rooting through his mind.

 _Very interesting_ , the Hat declared at last. 

_What is?_

_This situation you’ve gotten yourself entangled in this time. I do fear that this will all blow up in your face._

_You mean the . . . thing . . . with Sever—Snape._

_You can call him Severus, you know_ , the Hat chuckled. _After that little tryst in the lab, I’d think you’d at least call the man by his name._

Harry turned scarlet under the brim of the Hat. 

_But no_ , it continued. _You’ve already made up your mind about **that**. You’re just too scared to realize it. I meant everything else. Gryffindor has not been good for you. You should have been in Slytherin._

 _No!_ the boy snapped in response.

 _Well, there’s no helping it now, in any case_ , the Hat said, completely ignoring his outburst. _You’ve made your bed, now lie in it. But things are going to happen, Mr. Potter, whether you want them to or not. And you are not ready for them yet._

Harry tensed and, unbidden, the image of Sirius falling slowly backwards locked into his mind. It was like a slap in the face. Only, when he looked at it, it wasn’t Sirius; it was Snape. _I’ve been studying!_ he practically wailed before he could stop himself.

The Hat clamped down tighter on his head as though to chastise him. _It’s not an issue of studying. A wizard is the only one who can unlock his power, Potter. And you have left yours to lie fallow._

_My power . . .?_

_Yes. It is the man who makes the wizard, Potter, not the wizard who makes the man. Why else do you think that Longbottom is in Gryffindor and not Hufflepuff? You’re afraid. And your mind is too muggle. You don’t think or act like a wizard. You think and act like a child. It’s time for you to grow up._

_I am a child_ , Harry snapped peevishly.

 _Then God have mercy on us all. If you are a child, then stop expecting to be treated as an adult. Or loved like one. And if you’re not a child, then grow up. This is a war, Potter. Stop jumping at your own shadow—or Tom Riddle’s, as it were. The man makes the wizard, the wizard does **not** make the man. You could never be Lord Voldemort. Yes, you can be cruel and hateful. There is Darkness in you. You know that now—we’ve both seen what you did to your uncle. But you are Harry Potter, not Tom Riddle. That will never change. I stand by my original judgment: you’d have done better in Slytherin. But we all make mistakes, don’t we?_

Harry removed the Hat hastily, his hand trembling. Immediately the horribly invasive feel of the Founders’ magic stopped and he set the Hat back in its place. “I . . . have to go.”

“Too much information?” the Hat asked. It looked almost sympathetic. 

The Potter heir ignored the question and hastily gathered up his things. “You’ll tell Dumbledore that I had to go? Pomfrey will want me back soon anyway.”

The Hat snickered. “You may want to toss that paper of yours out first, though.”

Harry stopped his hurried packing and looked at the ruined parchment for a moment. The ink hadn’t come off and most of the writing was obscured by the spill. Towards the middle of the paper, though, two words were plainly visible. _Him Me_ He picked it up gingerly so as not to stain his fingers and threw it into the fireplace. The flames consumed it instantly. 

The boy turned back to the Hat, looking suddenly determined. “Tell him that I went back to the hospital wing.”

“Oh? Tired?” 

Harry shouldered his bag. “Something like that.” He turned and walked to the door.

The Hat’s voice made him pause at the entrance. “He really _does_ care for you, Potter.”

Harry’s finger’s tightened painfully around the knob. “He?”

“Yes. He. Either one is alright.”

For a moment Harry stared at the ancient grain of the door. Finally he stepped back and opened the door. “Oh.” The door boomed shut behind him. 

In a corner, a gold hand slid smoothly over the face of the clock. It moved slowly forward, edging from “My Office” to “The Dungeons.” Scrawled up the hand’s side was only one word: _Ready_.

The Sorting Hat hummed happily in the silent office.

  
**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**   


The bathroom floor was flooded again. Ron ducked carefully into the girl’s lavatory and made a face as his shoes immediately got soaked. Hermione was seated on the dais that held the sink, her long brown hair falling haphazardly into her eyes as she checked the cauldron.

“Mind the hair,” Ron teased mildly as he walked over to lean against one of the sinks. “Remember what happened in Second Year.”

‘Mione looked up and smiled, a faint blush staining her cheeks. “Oh, hush. Besides, this is Dreamless Sleep, not Polyjuice. Human hair will only neutralize the pixie wing dust.”

Ron settled against the sink and frowned down at his wet feet. “What does the dust do?”

The girl rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the potion. “Honestly, Ron! Don’t you ever study?”

“No.”

Hazel eyes flashed as she glared at him, but Ron only smiled cheekily. The bushy-haired Gryffindor snorted and stirred the cauldron three times counter-clockwise. “Have you talked to Harry today?”

“Not since Herbology. He looked a bit off still.” The Weasely turned away from his girlfriend and began to absently finger the faucet next to him. He watched his middle finger coast over the snake that opened the gate to the Chamber of Secrets. “I dropped by the Infirmary before I came, but he wasn’t there. I’m going to drop off his books tonight before dinner.”

“Good. Today’s his tea with Dumbledore, so he’s probably still in the Headmaster’s office.” Hermione rose and smoothed her robes unnecessarily. “This about ready to be put into vials. Can you put them on his bed tonight? He said that he was almost out last night when I visited him.”

Ron nodded and continued his absent inspection of the faucet without really seeing it. “Alright.” He hesitated for a moment and allowed himself to be distracted by the sound of Hermione cleaning up the potion’s ingredients and packing them away. He wondered idly when or _if_ Harry was going to tell Dumbledore he was on Dreamless Sleep. Probably some time after hell froze over and Snape awarded Gryffindor House points. “Where’s Myrtle?”

‘Mione smiled over the cauldron. “Off chasing Peeves,” she confided with a little laugh. “He was making fun of her glasses again.”

“Better than the U-bend, I guess.” The redhead watched Hermione’s careful, precise movements for a moment with absent admiration. “I don’t like this . . . I feel like we’re sneaking around on him.”

“Do you want to tell him about us? It might be better.”

Ron snorted and toed the water, watching ripples spread over the floor. “Or it could make him pull away from us even more.” He frowned. “I don’t know. I just don’t like it.”

Hermione began to spoon the Potion out into little test-tube like flasks and passing them to Ron to cork. There were thirty-four in all. When they were about halfway through, she spoke: “I don’t like it either. But I don’t want to upset Harry anymore. And I certainly don’t want to make him feel like a third wheel. He needs us right now. We’re like his family.” She spooned in the last of the potion and handed him the vial. “I just don’t want him to be hurt.”

Ron nodded. “When he’s ready, then. But soon.”

His girlfriend nodded, but looked no happier than he did about the situation. She collapsed the cauldron and began to pack up.

“I’ll label them tonight.” Ron paused and leaned back against the sink once more, resting his weight heavily against the ancient porcelain. “. . . Is it just me, ‘Mione, or is something wrong with Harry?”

His girlfriend looked up from her packing, wearing a slight frown. “I don’t really know . . . After Sirius . . . And he still hasn’t told us what happened this summer . . .” The girl trailed off, looking uneasy. “Why? Has he said anything to you?”

Ron shrugged and straightened a bit. “You know he never says anything. He could be standing right in front of you, holding his severed arm or something, and he’d just say he needed to lie down.” She glared and the Weasley flushed slightly and looked down at the still water pooled on the floor. “I just mean that he’s been studying an awful lot. And he’s been real quiet. He doesn’t even want to fight with Malfoy or Snape.” His lip curled involuntarily at the names. “And plus he’s been studying constantly.”

Hermione sat back on her heels and stared at the water as well. She nibbled her lower lip anxiously and Ron caught himself smiling at her reflection. She looked gorgeous when she was trying to figure things out. She looked gorgeous a lot. 

The muggleborn smoothed back her hair with a rough, automatic gesture. Her eyes were shadowed and troubled. “Maybe you’re right . . . Normally, I’m all for you two studying, but this just isn’t like him. He’s looked so pale and distant . . .”

Ron nodded and dropped down into a crouch in front of her. “Do you think it has to do with V-v-vol—You-Know-Who?” He still could not bring himself to say that name.

Hermione shrugged helplessly. “He said that the potion and his Occlumency have helped a lot. If it was Voldemort,” Ron winced slightly, “he’d tell us, don’t you think?”

Ron watched her in unhappy silence for a moment. “So if it’s not Big and Scary, what?”

“Has he spoken to Cho lately?”

“Not since last term.” The was another moment of silence. Finally Ron shifted guiltily. “He left the dorms around 11:30 our first night back. He didn’t come back till breakfast.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“He looked like he’d been crying,” the redhead protested. He shrank back from his girlfriend’s glare. “I thought that it was just fallout from Sirius, but—”

The girl frowned suddenly and her eyes grew distant. “He hasn’t said anything about Sirius . . . He hasn’t even cried since last year . . .”

“Harry doesn’t cry,” Ron said dismissively. He shifted, uncomfortable with setting his weight on his heels for so long. “I think it has something to do with Snape.”

Hermione blinked. “What makes you say that?”

“Remember when Snape stayed at the house this summer? Over the full moon?”

The girl frowned again, perplexed.

“That’s around the same time Harry started acting off.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

Ron nodded emphatically. Hermione’s eyes grew distant again a she turned the problem over in her mind.

“Do you think the greasy bastard did something to him?”

For once, she didn’t admonish him for language or for disparaging a professor.

“No,” she said clearly after a moment. “I don’t think that Snape did anything to him per se . . . Dumbledore would know by now and he’d never let Snape hurt Harry. But you may be right. Even if he isn’t directly involved, he probably knows something about what’s wrong. He _is_ a spy after all—he had to have seen or heard something.”

“The ferret’s been being kind of weird lately too. He keeps watching Harry—it’s kind of creepy actually.”

Hermione hide a smile as she drew the strings on her bag closed. “Maybe he fancies Harry.”

Ron pulled a face. “That’s not funny. Maybe he’d just pissed because of what happened to his daddy. Dad says that the Malfoy name isn’t something held in high regard at the Ministry anymore. Fudge has been trying to distance himself and cover his fat arse since June.”

“Maybe . . . But Harry would definitely tell us about Malfoy.” Hermione frowned thoughfully.

“Maybe.”

Ron stood and winced when his knees popped. He extended a hand to Hermione and helped her up. Her eyes were distant once again and she didn’t seem to notice as he gingerly pulled her closer. 

He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her muggle shampoo. She smelled like fruit and something sweet. “So what do we do?”

Hermione turned slightly and jumped to see Ron so close to her. When she looked up for a moment, she felt as though she were going to fall into those incredibly blue eyes. Ice blue. But they never seemed cold to her.

“’Mione?”

She smiled up at him and leaned into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her. “We watch,” she murmured into his robes. “And we wait. Harry will tell us when he’s ready.”

Ron squeezed her tight. “And until then, we watch the three of them like hawks.”

“Exactly.”

  


**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**  


The platinum-blond Slytherin sat in the far corner of the library, conspicuously alone. He spent most of his time alone now. People were beginning to notice. Whispers traveled through Hogwarts faster than angry kneazles under speed spells and the rumor mill was currently a-buzz with mutterings that all was not well in the House of the Snake. But those were only rumors.

Just rumors. 

Draco turned the page, gasping as a corner of the old parchment sliced into his finger. He popped the wounded digit into his mouth before any blood could fall on the page. Pince was absolutely mental about her books. Whispering in another corner caught the boy’s attention and he raised hard eyes to glare at a small cluster of Ravenclaw First Years who were pointing at him. The three boys immediately turned crimson and fled, lest the Malfoy heir take his bad temper out on them. 

The pain of the paper cut aside, they had good reason to be afraid. Draco sneered at the boys’ flight and turned back to his book, glaring sightlessly at the pages. It was too cold in here. He shivered. Not only was he having problems with the House because of his less than Pro-Death Eater behavior, he’d been unable to secure an interview with Professor Snape since that night in the Potions Master’s chambers. The blond scowled at the memory. He’d really gone out on a limb in divulging what he knew to the man, and he had yet to see a return on the investment. After what he saw the day before yesterday in the infirmary, though, Draco was beginning to think that the spy was avoiding him. A fundamentally stupid action now, as he simply _had_ to know that Draco knew of his dubious loyalties. And yet he risked a possible reprisal? It made no sense.

Perhaps it had something to do with Potter. That cozy little scene in the infirmary was not something that Draco ever expected to see. The way Snape had looked at the Gryffindor . . . had been something less than appropriate. Teachers were not supposed to look at their students like that. And why did Potter call Snape ‘Anhur’? Draco had the distinct feeling that he was standing on the precipice of a mystery that he should stay out of, but if it got his family away from the Dark Lord and could afford his mother and father a bit of protection, he was more than willing to risk it.

If the greasy old bastard wouldn’t help him out amicably, then he’d just have to resort to blackmail. He had given Snape ample opportunity to come forward and try and help him, but he had the overwhelming impression that he was running out of time. He wanted an allegiance with the co-called “Light” if that’s what it took to save his family, but he wanted it on his terms. His father had told him to keep out of it. Draco refused. It was time he stepped forward and took his place as the Malfoy patriarch. His father was obviously in no condition to make the family decisions anymore. He had risked everything to come this far; he would not be stalled by some over-presumptuous Snape who thought he was equipped to dilly-dally in Malfoy affairs.

Imagine what the famous Potter would do if he knew that the Head of Slytherin was looking at him with such amorous eyes. It had been stupid of Snape to do such a thing in the open, anyway. Very un-Slytherin. The _Prophet_ would pay big for something like that . . . 

But that could very well ruin Draco’s prospects with Potter. The Malfoy heir was not stupid; he knew that if he couldn’t get Potter’s help in extricating his family name from the Dark Lord’s webs, then he may as well give up. Dumbledore could not be trusted—the man would try to use him as a spy and Draco refused to allow himself to be entangled in the same manner as his Professor. This was his choice. And Potter needed all the allies he could get. Rumor had it that all was not well between the Golden Boy and Dumbledore. Perhaps Potter had realized that the senile fool could not be trusted. Perhaps he was ready for an ally who did not pay homage to Hogwarts hierarchy. Voldemort and Dumbledore were both Lords in their own respects, Dumbledore was just more manipulative than Voldemort. And, as far as Draco was concerned, they were both totally nutters. He could suffer the existence of a few mudbloods if necessary, but a Malfoy bowed to no one. Not anymore.

Potter demanded no such homage. It was obvious to anyone with eyes in their head that the boy was not the attention-loving celebrity that Draco had originally thought he was. In fact, Draco couldn’t imagine anyone _less_ suited to be a hero. But the boy was honest and brave and ridiculously Gryffindor, despite his apparent disregard for his status. Even though he was a half-blood, Draco couldn’t help but admire all the prat had accomplished in the past five years. The boy was formidable, and he’d grow to into a forced to be reckoned with. Draco was sick of setting himself against the tide. It was Potter who would fight the war. It was Potter who would win it. And, regardless of what he felt for the little bastard, Draco wanted to be by Potter’s side when that happened. And if Potter lost, he wanted to buried in that field. 

Draco would restore the Malfoy name. He would redeem his family. And he would avenge his father. There could be no victory on Voldemort’s side—it may have taken a heavy blow to get that through his skull, but he understood that now. The Malfoys were running out of time.

For almost a full week after Lucius was brought home, the Malfoy patriarch was locked in a cell in the basement with only Narcissa and a House Elf for company. Occasionally, though, the silencing charm would wear off and Draco could hear the screams. Horrible, terrible, screams. Pleas. “Forgive me, my Lord.” “Spare my family, my Lord.” “I will not fail again, my Lord.” And on. And on. And on. Until Draco was sick with the noise and his mother’s eyes burned from crying.

That had hurt more than his father’s arrest: Lucius Malfoy—an idol of politics, a god amongst men. And now a screaming madman locked in the basement who clawed himself like a wild beast to escape the pain of imaginary curses.

No. His family would not live through that again. Not ever. And Potter was his way out. But how to get the boy alone? How to make him listen?

Potter had still been asleep when Pomfrey had pushed Draco out of the infirmary, but the Slytherin knew that the Boy-Who-Lived had been released right after dinner. He had seen McGonagall hustling him up to the Headmaster’s office while coming to the library. Potter had looked . . . exhausted. He’d seen that same vague look in his father’s eyes when the Malfoy patriarch had emerged from the basement one day in early June—it was the empty eyed stare of someone who had sunk the absolute depths of their life and been forcibly drug to the surface again. But they didn’t surface—they just stayed there, just below water level, struggling to breath, never able to fully come back up. Draco shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to think about his father anymore.

The doctors said that the man would never really recover—whatever he’d been forced to endure for that month of imprisonment had wounded him indelibly. Scarred him somewhere deep, deep in his mind. The innocent were broken in Azkaban. The guilty were shattered.

_“You will not be returning to Hogwarts this year.”_

_“It’s my choice what I do, Father. I am not a child—”_

_“You are! You are a spoiled, selfish,_ stupid _child, and you will_ not _return to that . . . that . . . _school_!! It is too dangerous now! I will not allow you to involve yourself in this ridiculous war. This is no matter for a child to resolve. If you cannot make proper decisions for yourself then I will make them for you.”_

_“I’m NOT YOU! I won’t make you mistakes! I won’t ruin a good name! I won’t ignore my son or leave my wife to—”_

_**CRACK!** _

_. . ._

_“. . . Draco . . .?”_

_“ . . . You are a curse on our name, Father. You would have done us a better service to have died in that place.”_

Draco’s eyes flew open and he surged to his feet, the book tumbling unnoticed to the floor. He would not think of his father anymore. Not today. He walked out of the library with undue haste. The book remained on the floor, forgotten. 

The hallways seemed to pass in a blur and the blond was only aware of his progress by the jolt of every step. No one seemed to notice him as he went down to the dungeons. He wasn’t aware of where his feet were taking him until he found himself standing outside the door; he’d only wanted to escape the suffocating closed-ness of the library. So how, then, did he manage to end up outside Snape’s private potions lab?

 

For a moment he stared blankly at the door, as though surprised by it. He could still feel the tingle where his father had struck him.

The blond cast about the hallway as though debating going back. This was stupid, though, wasn’t it? It was long past time to confront the man. Two weeks was enough—more than enough. But Snape might not even be in there. True this was his usual lab hour, yet . . . 

Draco stiffened with a growl. He was being ridiculous. If Snape wasn’t in, then he wasn’t in. But his family was running out of time while he stood out in the hall like some mudblood First Year . . . And Snape would at least let him talk. Potter might very well hex first and ask questions later. 

And that nosey old bastard Dumbledore would probably find a way to give the prat points for it, too. 

Draco stepped forward and raised his hand to knock on the door.

He would not be put off any longer.

_“Stop this now!”_

Draco jerked to a halt, his hand still raised. Snape was arguing with someone? The door was very thick and it muffled the sound almost entirely, but he was sure he heard something. Perhaps this would give him the leverage he needed without alienating the Potter brat.

The blond dropped his hand and leaned forward a bit to try to catch some of the conversation, but there was only silence. Then there came on odd scuffling noise that Draco couldn’t identify.

 _“Have you lost all reason?!”_ Snape demanded suddenly. Draco took a step away from the door. The man sounded unhinged. 

And Draco _knew_ what someone unhinged sounded like.

But, again, there was nothing but silence. Finally, sick of standing about and unwilling to be brushed aside once more, Draco gripped the doorknob and pushed the door open and . . . 

Stopped.

“We ca—”

Draco stared in stunned amazement at the sight before him. Snape was on a chair in front of his worktable, frozen. He had stopped talking, choking on his words with a strange gasping noise. The man’s normally sickly color paled even further till he was gray as cheap paper, and his eyes widened as they met Draco’s, a hunted expression appearing on his face. 

The blond turned slightly, alarmed, to the decidedly boyish figure that was perched on the Snape’s knee. Small hands gripped the man’s robes, pulling him closer than was decent, and Snape’s hands were pressed against the boy’s sides. The boy turned with a fierce glare and Draco felt the room tilt around him. 

Because there, sitting on Snape’s lap, black hair eternally disheveled and his cheeks slightly flushed, was Harry James Potter . . . 

Looking madder than hell.

Draco took a step back, still gaping. 

_”Obliviate!”_

He never even saw Snape raise his wand.

  


**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**  



	5. Four I: The Dragon's Clutch

**_  
Where the Heart Moves the Stone_**  
 _~ Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc ~_  
\- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
10.7.2003

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**~ Chapter Four I ~  
The Dragon’s Clutch**

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Remember the warnings;  
Forget what you're told.  
The heart of the temple  
is hollow and cold.  
The face of the prophet is tired and creased . . .  
He raises his cup and falls to his knees.

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  


_D_ raco Malfoy sat alone in the center of the Slytherin common room, trying in vain to study his Potions text. Snape would have his head if he didn’t get his grades back up. Something had been bothering the man of late—it was as though he could no longer meet Draco’s eyes, but he suddenly seemed to be twice as strict about the Malfoy heir’s class work. And there was something else, too . . . Something that the platinum blond couldn’t quite put his finger on . . . Something hovering just on the tip of his awareness . . .

Something was very wrong with the Potions Master, and for the life of him, Draco could not figure out what it was. But that was small potatoes, really. What was really important was Potter. He had to talk to the other boy. And soon.

He could feel the eyes of his housemates on him, watching, judging, biding their time . . . Hyenas circling a carcass. Silver eyes snapped up and met the hungry jade gaze of Micah Jasperstone, a cocky, deceptively comely Seventh Year. If Draco had once ruled sixth years, then Micah lorded over the Seventh Years. The sandy-haired brunet bared his teeth in a smile at the Malfoy heir and turned sharply on his heel, stalking out of the room. 

Hyenas come to feast on the dead. 

Draco sneered. Let them come then—he was no easy meat. Not yet.

The door swung open and Blaise Zabini came trotting in. Zabini was quite possibly the only person in the world who could make the simple act of walking look indolent—not that anyone outside the House would notice; the dark-eyed Slytherin’s shell was only shed in the dungeons. Blaise crossed the common room and dropped carelessly into the seat next to Draco, blatantly ignoring the dark looks of the others. Pretty enough to be a girl, and bold enough to be a rather audacious boy, the only way most First Years knew their upperclassman’s sex was to watch the stairwells at curfew.

Despite having slept in the bed to Draco’s right for five years straight, the blond had never quite managed to figure out how Blaise snuck from the girl’s dorm to the boys, nor how the other boy had managed to even convince the girls to allow him to use their staircase every single night. Most of the new student didn’t figure out the trick until Christmas hols and everyone else was too amused by their faux pas to correct them. However he did it, Blaise seemed to enjoy causing confusion far more than was probably healthy. 

Even the teachers had problems distinguish Blaise from the girls. For the first two weeks of their First Year, the Zabini heir had worn a skirt to every class but Potions simply because he could. Once Snape had gotten wind of it, though, he had quickly put a stop to the behavior. . . . Though, to his credit, the Potions Master made no secret of his amusement over incident.

Critical brown eyes took in Draco’s tense posture with obvious curiosity. Finally, the brunet settled back and stretched his long legs out in front of him. Blaise seemed to have skipped the prerequisite awkward phase that 99% of boys go through and had moved immediately to the “young adult stage,” much to his dorm mates’ envy. He smirked at the other boy and ran a hand back through his long hair. “My, my, my . . . Aren’t we looking a bit piqued today . . . Lost your boys, have you?”

Draco looked up from his book and glared at his sometimes-ally, never-friend with intense eyes. The loss of Crabbe and Goyle’s friendship had been a painful blow, and an enforcement of his worst fears about them: they had just been using him. Like everyone else. For a moment the two teens stared at one another in silence. Then Draco closed his book and leaned back into the couch as well. People began to surreptitiously filter out of the common room—an unusual occurrence for four o’clock in the afternoon. Draco couldn’t help but wonder who had arranged this little tête-à-tête. 

He cocked his head to the side slightly and watched Zabini for a moment. “Potter’s been released from the hospital wing.”

Blaise arched an eyebrow. “When? Yesterday? That certainly explains why he wasn’t been at breakfast for the past few days. Pomfrey should just give him his own bed already.”

“It would certainly save her time,” the blond agreed, turning to stare at the empty fireplace. “Seems he had a bad time of it in Divination a few days ago.”

Blaise sniffed dismissively. “Useless class, that.”

“Mmmm . . .”

For several moments the boys sat in silence, each lost in his own thoughts as the last students filed in and out on their way to or from class. Finally Draco frowned at his companion and shifted uncomfortably. The common room was empty now and they were alone.

“What do you want, Blaise?”

A furtive glance at Draco’s face revealed no malice, only simple, tired curiosity. Blaise turned slightly, giving his housemate his full attention. He frowned slightly at the too-old expression in Draco’s eyes and felt a pang of pity for the Malfoy heir. They were all getting too old for their ages, it seemed. It must be the war.

Draco frowned slightly, an impatient expression, and the brunet made a fretful face. “You shouldn’t change horses in the middle of the stream, Malfoy. It’s bad policy. Especially when the stream is a river and the horses are a lot bigger than you are and are gunning for each other.”

The blond’s expression didn’t change. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Blaise.”

Blaise scowled and barely resisted reaching out to shake the other boy. “Look, Malfoy, you’re an arrogant, egotistical prick, but I like you. Now, the others have noticed something’s up. You’re drifting off during Potions. You’re eyeing Potter and the Trio like you’ve never seen them before. Merlin, you’re looking at Potter like he’s the Holy Grail or something. Crabbe and Goyle are wandering around like lost sheep between classes because they can’t remember which lessons to go to and they look like they want to cry every time someone mentions your name. So either you’re thinking of a realignment, or you’re just suicidal.” He paused. “Or both.” Draco looked away, but Blaise continued, “You _know_ I don’t run with that crowd, so if this is what the neutrals are saying, imagine what the others are talking about when you’re not around. This is going to get back to Him at some point in time, and _then_ it’ll be buggering time.”

Draco sneered at him with open contempt. “And you care, why?”

“I don’t,” snapped the other boy. “I got drafted to talk with you, so here I am. Nobody likes instability within the House, Malfoy and you’re fixing to fuck us all up. We’ve maintained a balance here for over seven hundred years. We’ve survived Grindelwald and we’ll survive the Dark Lord. But if you bring politics into the common room, then we will lose what tenuous solidarity we have and the other Houses will _eat us alive_.”

“My heart weeps for your plight, Zabini.”

For a moment it looked as though Blaise would strike him, then the brunet turned away to glare at the empty fireplace. He snapped his wrist with a flourish of slight of hand and his wand appeared. “Incendio.” 

The cold logs roared to life.

“You’re not making yourself any friends, Dragon.”

“Nor are you, Zabini. People who refuse to have enemies can never have friends.”

Blaise pushed himself off the couch, wand vanishing once more into his sleeve, and stalked over to the fireplace. “And what of Professor Snape?”

“What of him?” Draco’s eyes bored into Blaise’s back as the other boy leaned heavily against the mantle and stared at the flames. “Snape is nothing.”

“If you do this thing, then _Professor_ Snape is your lifeline. He rules Slytherin House; you’re saved or damned by his word alone.”

“He’s only a—”

“He is the Dark Lord’s pet Potions Master.”

Draco gave a derisive snort. “No, Zabini. Snape’s even worse than you. You neutrals,” he spat the word out with disgust. “You all say that you’re on no one’s side and then try to play politics without being involved. People who refuse to acknowledge that there’s even an argument forfeit any right to join the discussion. But our Snape—oh, he’s a piece of work. He says he’s on everyone’s side, but then only ends up betraying himself.”

Blaise turned, his eyes burning more intensely than the fire. “Knickers in a twist because he won’t take your side, Dragon?” He stalked back towards the couch, stopping a few feet from Draco to stare down at him with his arms crossed and his lips set in a tight, humorless line. “Turn your back on Slytherin, and we will turn our back on you. Within these walls, no one should ever be assured of who’s on whose side. Don’t break that code. The only thing that we know within Hogwarts is that we are Slytherin. It doesn’t matter what your name is or how much money you make or who your Daddy is. We are Slytherin. That’s all the other Houses will understand. _That_ is our only identity. There is no room for a split, or a schism. We have no time for petty squabbling. Stop parading yourself about like a bloody peacock and think about your House for a moment. You’re going to ruin everything!”

“Why are you so afraid of shattering a tired stereotype?!”

“Why are you suddenly so determined to fly in the face of every secret House Code that Slytherin has known—that your _family_ has known—for centuries?!”

The shorter boy sprang to his feet, angered. “I am _NOT_ my bloody name! I am not my father! I am not some cookie cut of my blood. I am _myself_ and _I_ will make my own decisions!”

Blaise stared at him for a moment, stunned into silence. “What the hell happened to you this summer, Draco?”

Draco clenched his fists and looked away. “Go to hell, Blaise.”

Blaise stalked across the room determinedly in his swaying, indolent waltz. He paused next to Draco and dropped his head to whisper in the shorter teen’s ear. “You first, love.” Then he left, leaving a slight chill and the faint scent of opium behind him.

Draco glared at the fireplace, raging silently. His hands trembled. His Potions text was long since forgotten.

“I am no easy meat.”

The flames danced in response, reflected in his flat silver eyes.

  
**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**   


_“And I get no choice in this?”_

_“You’ve made your choice. Now it’s my turn and I know what I want. Why are you fighting this so much?”_

_“Stop this now!”_

_“No. Not this time. You don’t get to tell me what to do this time. I’m not running away. Not anymore.”_

_“Don’t you understand anything? This has nothing to do with you or with me. This is WRONG, Potter. Wrong in every sense of the word.”_

_“I don’t believe that.”_

_“If doesn’t matter what you believe.”_

Green eyes snapped open and Harry lurched awake from his light doze. He looked around the dorm for a moment, then lay on back down on his back and stared blankly up at the blurry blood red canopy of his bed. _Stupid, stupid, stupid . . ._

His eyes drifted closed once more as he rolled the situation over in his mind again and again, finding every little error, every miscalculation. Every stupid thing that had made everything go so terribly wrong. Just what the hell had he been thinking? Bursting in like that? It wasn’t like Snape was just going to throw him across the table and ravage him . . . Well, he might have if the damn ferret hadn’t come waltzing in.

Why, oh _why_ , hadn’t he thought to lock the door?

His cheek still stung where Snape had slapped him—a phantom sensation. It hadn’t been hard, but the gesture itself had hurt far more than the blow. The look—the _anger_ —in Snape’s eyes had hurt more than he had believed possible.

 _Temper, temper, Harry._ The boy took a deep breath. He would not lose his temper. Not over the ferret. Not even over Snape.

_“This is not some game! This is my job! My **life**!! Are you trying to kill me as well?”_

_**As well . . .** _

But _what_ had he been thinking? And why did this hurt so much? It wasn’t like there was anything there but a kiss or two. Nothing more.

_“Get out, Potter! Get out or I will throw you out and I will throw you so hard you’ll bounce twice!!”_

_“I’ll not be chased away just because you’ve gotten in over your head!”_

_“I cannot do this!!”_

_“You will!”_

_“Stupid child! Idiot boy, do you have any idea what you are getting into? Any idea at all? I am 37 years old. I am a Death Eater. I am your bloody Professor! And I will not be browbeaten by some silly, hormonal child!”_

_“Then throw me out. Throw me out. Or better yet, look me in the eye and tell me that this was all some kind of dream, or daymare, or fantasy, and I’ll leave and never come back. Tell me you don’t want me here.”_

_“. . . I don’t want you here, Mr. Potter.”_

_“My name is Harry. And you didn’t look me in the eye.”_

Snape was right: this wasn’t a game. This was something important.

But this was also Snape he was dealing with. Death Eater. Tormenter of Gryffindors Everywhere. Hater of All Things Good and True. And especially of Harry Potter. It must have been a mistake—a dream. It must have been . . .

Everything.

_“Obliviate!”_

Greasy hair. Crooked, yellowed teeth. Big, hooked nose. Nasty temper. Stained hands. A traitor. A spy. An unapologetic ass. This was Snape.

And it hurt.

_“I told you that I wasn’t leaving until you listened to me. And I’m not going to let you just throw me out. So listen: I . . . I **want** things. And I don’t always understand it, but I want them. And I do stupid thing and don’t think things through. And I’ve hurt you and I’m not really sure what I’m getting into . . . But I’ve thought about this—really thought about it—and I **want** this. **I want you**. And every single instinct I have inside me tells me that this is right and that this is the way things are supposed to be. I know I leap before I look. And I’m too curious. And I can’t let go of something once I have it. But this isn’t like that. This is something . . . different. And I want to see what it is. So stop arguing with me and stop condemning yourself over things that I’ve already decided on.”_

This was Snape. Strong arms. Deep, dark voice. Unflappable courage. Undeniable honor. Unquestionable brilliance. Unforgiving arrogance. Severus Snivellus Snape. Whose kisses tasted sweet and tangy and whose greasy hair smelled of ginger and peppermint.

Snape, who had held him this summer. And who did not ask what happened at the Dursleys’. And who did not cry out when he pierced himself on ivory teacup shards, but sobbed and shrieked when Voldemort shattered his hand with a wisp of cotton. Snape, who would drape his cloak over his shoulders and who did not believe that Harry would have been like his mother. 

Snape, who had lied to Harry and said that he was not going to die.

Harry rubbed his cheek absently. _“It doesn’t matter what you believe.”_

“Hey, mate! You awake?” 

Harry’s eyes snapped open again at the sound of Ron’s voice just as his best friend’s blurry face appeared in front of him. Concerned blue eyes stared down at the brunet and Harry rolled over to get away from the uncomfortable familiarity of their proximity. Ron flopped down on the bed and Harry sat up. There was a series of crunching pops as the Potter heir cracked his neck loudly and reached out to fumble for his glasses from his nightstand. 

The world slid into sharp focus as he settled them on the bridge of his nose and Harry blinked rapidly for an instant, suddenly aware of the pounding headache beating in his temples. Perhaps he was better off without the glasses. He was beginning to prefer things blurry.

The bed dipped up and down a bit as Ron tapped his feet on the floor. “You okay?” The sixth Weasley turned around to frown at his friend. “We’re worried about you. ‘Mione and me . . .”

Harry avoided his eyes, instead focusing on the ratty laces of his weather-beaten trainers. “I’m fine,” he said quietly, flexing his toes back to examine the tips of the shoes. 

“No,” came the equally quiet response. “No, you’re not, mate.”

Harry looked away from his shoes, somewhat put off by Ron’s unusually pensive response, and blinked at the oddly serious expression on the redhead’s face. “Ron?”

They stared at one another for a moment and Harry was suddenly painfully aware of how very far apart they seemed to have grown. He was still closer to Ron and Hermione than he was—or ever had been—to anyone else in his life. But there was also this distance between them that he didn’t know how to close. For just an instant he wanted to blurt it all out. All of it.

_I think I’m gay. Snape and I kissed and I want to do it again. I’m afraid that Voldemort is going to kill me. I’m afraid he’s going to get in my head and make me hurt you all. I’m terrified of losing control again. I hate that you and Hermione are keeping secrets from me. I hate that I can’t trust Dumbledore. I hate that Snape keeps tossing me aside. I hate that Remus can’t look me in the eye. I hate that I’m the biggest threat to the Order outside of Voldemort. I hate that I’m at the center of everything and no one can trust me. I hate that through all this, all I can think of is that greasy bastard. I hate that I’m alone. And I hate that I’m so scared._

“Why won’t you let us help you?” Ron asked quietly.

Harry looked back down at his trainers. “Ron . . .” But the words wouldn’t come. 

A bird chirped outside and the silence lengthened uncomfortably.

Finally Ron stood with a frustrated sigh. “I’ll meet you on the pitch in twenty for practice, okay?”

He was almost out the door when Harry spoke again. 

“It’s okay, you know. You and Hermione.” 

Ron froze in the doorway and turned slowly to look at his friend. “What do you mean?”

Green eyes stared back at him. There was no longer the perpetual anger or repressed rage that was there, merely an old, old tiredness that seemed to permeate his thin frame. Ron stared at him for a moment, surprised to see traces of Remus in his friend. It was in the eyes.

Harry smiled, a smile, wistful expression. “You and Hermione. I know you’re together.” A dark eyebrow suddenly lifted and the smile became a bit more playful. “And it’s about damn time. And it’s okay. I don’t feel . . . left out.”

Ron narrowed his eyes for a moment and then suddenly smiled, a familiar bright red flush rising to stain his cheeks. “Were we that obvious?”

The brunet snickered lightly as the tension dissipated. This was far more comfortable ground for the two of them. “You know Lavender has a big mouth.” 

Ron snorted in response.

“And anyway,” Harry continued, “it doesn’t help that you get this big dopey grin on your face every time she walks into the room.”

“Oi!” Ron grabbed a pillow off of Neville’s and threw it at his snickering friend. “I do not!”

Harry burst out laughing and rolled back onto his bed to avoid the pillow. It bounced harmlessly off the wall and landed next to his head while Ron turned an even deeper shade of red.

“Quit laughing at me!”

The brunet gasped for air, still shaking with mirth as a rain of pillows flew his way. “Knock it off!” He fumbled around in his sheets until he found his wand and dodged a pillow to throw a Tickling Charm at his indignant housemate. 

Ron immediately dropped to the ground, laughing hysterically and sputtering protests. “No . . . fair . . .!”

Harry smirked as he struggled past the pillows to get out of bed. “All’s fair in love and war.” Seeing his friend so happy—even if it was Charm induced happiness—somehow lifted his spirits immeasurably. “Finite Incantatem.”

Still chuckling, Ron pushed himself to his feet and tired in vain to catch his breath. “You don’t play fair.” His smile, however, was proof that he wasn’t angry. And the smile that still lit Harry’s face was reward enough for a few moments of tickling. It had been far too long since Harry had smiled like that.

Snickering, the Potter boy tossed the pillows back onto random beds.

“Leave it,” Ron advised, hovering by the door. “We’ll be late for practice. And you know we have that match against Slytherin next weekend. Even if Malfoy’s been quiet at meals, I still wouldn’t trust him in the air.”

Harry shrugged and tossed two pillows onto Neville’s bed. “It’s no big deal. Dobby has enough to do as it is. And I don’t trust Malfoy any farther than I can throw him.”

“Good.”

The brunet turned, surprised to hear his friend sound so pleased.

Ron flushed again and suddenly took a great interest in the carpet. “’Mione thinks he fancies you.”

Harry immediately looked appalled. “Ew! No . . .”

Ron looked up and grinned. “Good. You’re my friend and all, mate, but Malfoy’s a right prat.” 

Harry smiled and turned to pull up his covers. “Get everyone to start warming up, okay? I’ll be down in a few.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Ron turned and then paused again. He didn’t turn around. “You know, Harry . . . If you _do_ really need anything, you can tell us. You know that right?”

Harry didn’t turn either. “I know.” He carefully straightened the sheet. “I’ll be down okay?”

Ron left without another word and Harry pulled up his comforter. He knew he could go to Ron and Hermione if he needed them, but he also knew that they’d risk just about anything for him. He’d never forget what Hermione had looked like during the fight in the Department of Mysteries. The sight of his friends’ faces in battle was not something he enjoyed. Ron and Hermione would probably follow him into hell—and Harry couldn’t allow that.

 

His father.

His mother.

Bertha Jenkins.

Cedric.

Sirius.

The body count was too high as it was. He would not add any more names to that list if he could help it. Besides, this was _his_ fight, not theirs. The prophecy even said so. Unless Neville Longbottom stepped up to the plate, Harry was all they had. And Neville couldn’t even sit through a Potion’s class without having a near nervous breakdown, let alone go toe to toe with the Dark Lord. Harry sighed and straightened his covers. 

The Hat was right. It was time he took control of his own life. He couldn’t keep depending on people to save him from himself. And if he ever wanted Snape to get his head out of his arse, he’d have to stop acting like the “Perfect Potter” brat the man had so often accused him of being.

It was time to take control.

Unfortunately, Harry didn’t have even the vaguest idea of where to begin.

The boy stood and stared at his perfectly made bed. If he had learned anything at the Dursleys’, it was how to clean. The clock chimed, reminding Harry of the hour, and he grabbed his bag and headed down towards the locker room. It was a ten-minute walk from Gryffindor Tower and he so lost in his thoughts that he barely even saw where he was going.

Which was probably why he didn’t even see Draco Malfoy until he walked into him.

“Hey!”

Harry yelped and stumbled backwards, a hand going up to steady his glasses even as he felt himself losing his balance. A strong hand snapped out, gripping his robes and jerking him back upright before he could fall. For a moment Harry locked eyes with Malfoy and froze. The boy really was beautiful.

But it wasn’t like with Snape.

Malfoy’s grip tightened and he yanked Harry just a bit closer. “I need to talk to you.”

The brunet snarled and jerked himself out of the taller boy’s grasp. “Sod off, ferret!” he hissed. It wasn’t parseltongue, but it sounded close enough to be unnerving.

_Temper, temper!_

Malfoy cast an almost frantic glance around the empty hallway and reached out to him again, as though trying to draw him back. Harry pulled away and was suddenly aware of the feel of his wand in his hand. When had he drawn his wand?

“Potter!” Again, Malfoy shot another of those strange, panicked glances around the hall. “Potter, listen. I can help you. I—” 

“I don’t want your help, ferret!” Why was he shaking? He forced himself to lower his wand. The amount of effort it took frightened him. “I don’t need it and I don’t want it.” If it wasn’t for Malfoy, Severus might not be so mad at him now. Severus might even be willing to look him in the eye. “You stay away from me, Malfoy.”

The blond took another step forward and Harry raised his wand again, glowering. 

“Potter—”

“Is there a problem here?”

Both boys jumped and turned slightly, startled to find Professor Sprout puffing her way up the hall towards them. The Head of Hufflepuff frowned at the two Sixth Years, her brown eyes hard over the rims of her tiny round spectacles. She stopped a few feet away from them and put her fists on her considerable hips, still frowning. Malfoy took a step away from Harry.

“Well,” she demanded curtly, looking from one boy to the other. “Is there a problem?”

Malfoy’s eyes never left Harry’s face. “No, ma’am. No problem.”

Sprout turned her gaze to Harry and received a slow shake of his head in reply. 

“No problem,” he muttered, sliding his wand back into his palm so that it was hidden in his sleeve. “No problem at all.”

The rotund professor huffed, the action making her battered witch’s hat shift on her head. She eyed them both a moment longer, obviously not believing them, and then shook her head. “Well move along then. I’m sure you both have places to be.”

Harry turned and hurried on his way, trying to ignore the feel of Malfoy’s eyes on his back. The day he needed help from a Malfoy was the day he made Dobby his personal bodyguard.

He didn’t need Malfoy.

He didn’t need anyone.

He stopped abruptly and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to get a handle on his temper. He shoved his wand into a robe pocket and tried to still the shaking in his hands. He had almost lost it back there. He could still feel it in the pit of his belly . . . That solid ball of anger that he had worked so desperately to push down. It had erupted once. He couldn’t let that happen again. Not here. Not at Hogwarts. Not when it could be one of his friends who got hurt next time. Not when it could be Ron. Or Hermione. Or Severus.

Harry exhaled and opened his eyes, forcing himself to relax. This was ridiculous. All he was doing was thinking in circles. He resumed walking, forcing a bounce into his step that he didn’t really feel. He was going to be in control. He was going to fine. So to hell with this. To hell with this, to hell with Malfoy, and to hell with Severus Snape. He was going to play Quidditch.

  


**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**  


Ignominy. Shame. Disgrace. A state of dishonor. Dishonour. Humiliation. Obloquy. Odium. Opprobrium. Reproach. Ignominy.

_I hate you. I hate you. I hate myself._

My lips brush the hem of his robes and I feel sickened by my own false reverence. My Lord makes a pleased noise in his gullet and his thin, thin, thin lips are stretched in a macabre parody of a smile.

The Dark Lord is pleased.

I easily hide my shudder of revulsion and take my place in the circle next to Lucius. Poor Lucius—I’m beginning to see that Draco is right. The man truly has gone mad. But he hides it well. He is a Malfoy; they all hide it well.

Draco . . . I say I chose myself over him. My life over his. My position over his. I lie to myself. Have I always lied to myself this much? Albus, in his habitually not-quite-condescending manner, told me that I was a coward. That I could no longer hide behind his robes. That I was now responsible for my own actions—my own messes. Albus said that I have always been a coward. Albus is right.

_“I kissed Harry Potter.”_

And now is not the time for this.

I push the thoughts aside and seal them up behind cynicism and Occlumency. I have years of practice in doing so. Years of control.

Control is a choice. I choose to spy. I choose to torture, rape, and murder in the name of my Pride—my delusion. And then, once the reality of my own arrogance became apparent, I chose to bear the exact same yoke in the name of Good—of the Great Albus Dumbledore. I choose to curse my students and lay the tattered remnants of my dignity on an altar at the Great Albus Dumbledore’s feet. _Kyrie eleison._ My God, My God, why hast thou forsaken me?

Though, I suppose I forsook you first. That assertion is an issue of pride at this point in my life and little more. But I know why I’m here, why I do this. I may bow to Albus, but I’m not here for him. Or for myself. Perhaps I’m here for my mother, gentle soul that she was. A bit mad, though. One had to be a bit mad to be married to my father. And perhaps—just a little bit—I’m here for the boy as well. I’ve invested far too much time and energy to allow something as small as my Master destroy him. Either of my Masters.

_Again, after supper, he took the cup, gave thanks, and gave it for all to drink, saying: ‘This cup is the new covenant in my blood, shed for you and for all people for the forgiveness of sin. Do this for the remembrance of me.’_

Death Eater meetings make me wax religious. I’ve never known why.

The honors are given. We’ve all bowed to the Dark Lord. The boy wants to call him by name. The boy is a fool. There are forty of us on this night, all of our faces hidden by white masks except for Wormtail. Pettigrew, it seems, is not properly ashamed to be in the Dark Lord’s presence. Pettigrew is also a fool, if for different reasons.

I am the greatest fool of all.

Lord Voldemort shifts in his chair. Nagini is nowhere in sight. “Severussssss . . . what has the old fool been doing?”

I feel my spine straighten a bit. My voice is smooth. “He continues attempting to teach Potter Occlumency, but the boy has not yet mastered it. It seems that, even when not in my . . . care,” don’t have to feign my sneer at the word, “the brat has some sort of block.”

The Dark Lord nods as though this is nothing new.

“The Order of the Phoenix has reached an impasse with the Minister of Magic. It appears Fudge would like to have more control over the Order’s activities and is demanding a list of its members. He still fears that Dumbledore is attempting to overthrow him. Also, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was found unconscious in a broom cupboard in Hufflepuff Tower on Friday. No one—least of all she herself—has offered an explanation for this incident. The students seem to think that she is in league with you, my Lord . . .” The statement trails off into a question and I pause.

A spindly-fingered hand waves the implication away and gestures for me to continue.

I rake my mind for acceptable going-ons. Unfortunately, only the unacceptable ones come to the forefront. Draco will do anything to escape the Dark Mark. Potter wants to have relationship of some sort with me. Or at least sex. I am losing control of everything. 

I wonder what the Dark Lord would say if I told him that.

 _‘Crucio’_ , most likely.

Instead I say, “Potter has also taken to studying more often. He spends a good deal of time in the library. I’ve discovered that the Headmaster issued him a pass for the Restricted Section in secret. The boy goes there at night with his invisibility cloak. Dumbledore may be planning something, but I have not been able to ascertain what exactly. I have not yet been able to . . . redeem myself after the incident last term.”

Again the Dark Lord nods as though none of this came as a surprise. Flat red eyes turned from me to Lucius and I can’t help but relax a fraction. 

“Lucius . . . .” Long, white fingers beckon the other man forward. “Come here, little Luciussss . . .”

For a moment, Lucius doesn’t move, only stares at the Dark Lord blankly. I cannot repress a shudder. Being called forward is either very good, or very bad. For Lucius, it is most likely the latter. What did Azkaban do to him?

Someone in the circle titters in amusement. It can only be Bellatrix. Only she would dare. I doubt she even comprehends the danger anymore, anyway. She’s mad, though I suppose we all are to some extent. Ignominy. The laughter seems to snap Lucius out of his trance and he moves forward—lurches, really—to kneel down before the Dark Lord again. I feel the ache of an old pain in my left hand and stalwartly ignore it. This is not yet my time for punishment, though that will no doubt come in time.

“Luciussssssss . . .”

And Lucius shudders. 

“What news have you from your little Dragon?”

My heart stops. Draco? What on Earth would the Dark Lord be expecting to hear from Draco?

“None, my Lord.”

The long nails on the edge of those bone-like fingers tap a slow, irritated cadence on the wooden arms of his chair as our Master leans forward a bit and it is obvious that he is no longer pleased. “None . . .?” he hisses menacingly.

Lucius simply stares up at him from his kneeling position below the dais. “None.”

Red eyes narrow. “I am unable to comprehend your continual failuress, Luciussss. And I am most displeased with them. I have given you opportunity after opportunity to redeem yourself and yet you continue to disssappoint me. Not only have you failed to reassert yourself at the Ministry, you have managed to further stigmatize your name through your recent . . . _reclusive_ behavior. Because of you, that bumbling idiot Fudge is at risk of being depossssed. Do you really believe that that muggle-protecting fool Dumbledore will allow anyone else as incompetent as Fudge in office right now? Our enemy is wily, little serpent, and you may well have given him the opening he needs. And now you come to me with yet another failure.”

He pauses, as though giving Lucius some leeway to make an appropriate excuse. But Lucius just remains silent. A part of me is pleased—Lucius’s failings will make my own seem less severe—but the part of me that once admired the arrogant Malfoy wishes that the man would speak up and defend himself.

The Dark Lord’s eyes flare menacingly. “It isss not wise to dissssapoint me, Luciussss . . .”

Lucius seems to shake himself again, as though finally realizing the danger he’s in. The poor fool.

He grovels before the makeshift throne and I feel my stomach turn at the sight. “My Lord, I am loyal—”

“It is not your loyalty I question, servant. It is your competence.”

“I—”

The wand in the Dark Lord’s left hand twitches slightly. “ _Crucio!_ ”

Ahhh . . . And so it begins.

Lucius writhes on the floor for our master’s pleasure. He doesn’t scream until the second Curse. Does it feel the same to him, I wonder?

“Finite Incantatem.” For a moment it looks as though the Dark Lord will be merciful, but then it comes again. “ _Crucio!_ ”

His body jerks and spasms gracelessly and I force myself to look on with clinical dispassion. There is nothing beautiful about this type of pain. It is dirty, effective, and all-consuming. 

“Finite Incantatem.” 

Gasping and choking now. Sobbing. 

I feel no pity for him. 

“ _Crucio!_ ”

The fourth Curse falls and Lucius’s convulsions work the mask free. He’s bitten his tongue at some point in time and a bloody froth has gathered at the corners of his mouth. 

And then it stops. I’m disappointed and apprehensive as Lucius regains the presence of mind to resume groveling. Four Crucius Curses. Perhaps six minutes or so passed during Lucius’s punishment. Four Curses—a bit extreme, even for the Dark Lord. Whatever Lucius is supposed to be doing is important. Or perhaps he merely thought he could drive Lucius out of whatever inner world the man seems to be retreating into. That used to be a muggle theory during the 19th century: that which would drive a sane man mad can also drive a mad man sane. Or so I’ve been told. Lucius’s groveling is noticeably half-hearted. He doesn’t look any saner to me. 

“Enough!” Apparently the Dark Lord has also noticed this. He shifts unhappily on the dais and makes a dismissive gesture, clearly disgusted by Lucius’s presence. “At least I know there are others who can be depended upon!” 

He turns towards a shadowed corner behind him and hisses in parseltongue. Wormtail squeaks as though bitten by something and scurries off towards the shadows behind the dais. A door opens and closes somewhere that I cannot see. Lucius has retrieved his mask in the meantime and taken his place at my side once more. He does not appear to be aware of the blood and saliva dribbling from his chin to his robes as he puts his mask back on. I can feel my lips thin.

The Dark Lord turns back around and I can feel his eyes boring into me. “Severussssssss . . . Come forth.” Lucius is forgotten. 

I stride forward with a confidence I do not feel and drop into a graceful kneeling position. “Yes, my Lord.” It is always about humility. I have become extremely good at being humble when the situation demands it. I press my forehead against the cold grainy floor in prostration. 

_My God, My God . . .Quia tu es, Deus, fortitudo mea: quare me repulisti, et quare tristis incedo, dum affligit me inimicus?_

“You too have failed me, have you not, my impetuous Severussss . . .?”

_Dum affligit me inimicus . . ._

_Yes._ “Yes, my Lord.”

_Ostende nobis Domine, misericordiam tuam._

I can feel him smiling down at me. “Honesty is so refreshing, Severusssssss . . .”

I will never get used to this.

“ _CRUCIO!!_ ”

I try to relax before the curse hits, but it’s no use. The world vanishes in pain and I can taste blood in my mouth. Burningachingfirepaintearingspiningdrowningdyingdyingdying………And then it ends.

My head is spinning and it feels as though all my muscles will burst through my skin with even the slightest movement. I pull out of a fetal position and return to kneeling.

“So very refreshing . . .” 

There is bile in my throat.

“You will, of course, try harder, Severusss? If you cannot worm your way back into the old man’s good graces, I hardly see the need for you to remain at Hogwartsss . . . Particularly when your unique skillsss can be of so much more use to me here . . .”

I swallow the vomit attempting to crawl up my throat. “I will not fail you again, my Lord.”

“No. You will not.”

I close my eyes, blocking out the sight of own spit and sweat on the floor, commingled with Lucius’s blood. _Et salutare tuum da nobis._

“ _Crucio!_ ”

_Don’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscrea  
mdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscr  
eamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’t  
screamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdo  
n’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscream  
don’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscre  
amdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’tscreamdon’ts  
creamdon’tscreamdon’tscream—_

“Finite Incantatem.”

It hurts. _I hurt._

Just breathe.

I’m given a moment to collect myself and sent back to my place with a flick of his wrist.

“Thank you, my Lord. You are most merciful, my Lord.” The words come automatically.

I take my place next to Lucius and wonder when or if the point of this Summons will become apparent. It is unusual for me to be Summoned while school’s in session. 

My body hurts and my hands tremble. I ignore it.

“Bring it forth,” the reptile hisses suddenly. 

Lucius stirs beside me, his cold eyes shadowed by more than pain. Is this why I was called here? _What is it?_ I want to ask him. I remain silent.

The hidden door behind the dais opens once more and Wormtail staggers forth, two large pieces of something wrapped in brown paper. He rounds the dais, puffing as though exhausted, and stoops over to carefully set the wrapped pieces on the ground. I can barely resist the urge to crane my neck forward for a better look. Lucius makes as though to take a step backwards and I reach out and seize his wrist, careful to shield the action from the other. Our Master’s eyes, however, are riveted to Wormtail’s mystery objects.

The little traitor is carefully peeling back the paper, his movements blocking my view. The Dark Lord is practically purring with pleasure as he watches the unveiling. Finally done unwrapping the pieces, Wormtail steps away and I find myself looking at what appears to be a large broken sheet of black glass. It may have once been circular in shape, but now it lay in jagged pieces, carefully arranged so that, if fused together, they would form a sheet of glass roughly a meter in diameter. It seems as though it was split cleanly in two from side to side, and then the remaining halves were shattered.

A small gasp leaves several members of the circle and a figure I recognize as Bellatrix steps forward. Her voice is only slightly muffled by her mask. “Master . . .?”

Lord Voldemort rises and descends to stand above the glass, Nagini slithering out of the shadows to join him. His triumphant smirk fills me with dread and all I can think of is how green the boy’s eyes are. 

“Yesss,” he hisses in response to Bellatrix’s unasked question. “Those of you who helped in the search will be greatly rewarded. _This_ ,” he gestured, “is the key to victory.” He raises his eyes and his gaze sweeps over us all. “Kneel, Death Eaters.”

We kneel. And then the spell begins. 

He’s chanting in parseltongue and I can feel his magic washing over me. It’s cold and dark and cruel. I lock my mind against his power even as I feel my own magic rising in response. _So this is what he wanted . . ._ The magic of his forty strongest servants for a spell. My skin begins to tingle from the build up of unreleased magic.

The pieces of glass begin to tremble. Then they rise and start to glow. I close my eyes against the glare of their light.

“ _Shhhhhhleghthhhhhhhslllllluhaaaaaaarrrrrrrth . . ._ ”

The light becomes a physical thing—an assault on my senses—and I feel as though I’m going to burst from the sheer amount of power inside me. It’s as though I’m dying of thirst and trying to drink the sun itself. I can’t stop it. The Mark on my arm burns and aches by turns. Everything is on fire. _I_ am on fire.

_Harry . . ._

And then he draws it all in—the light, the heat, the magic, and the thirst—all of it is torn out of me through the livid, bloody brand on my arm. Some of the others are screaming. I bite my tongue instead.

By the time I’ve spat out the blood and forced my eyes open, it’s over. The Death Eaters have all fallen over. It seems as though I’ve gotten dirt in my eyes from lying on the floor. Lucius lay motionless at my side and many of the others are so still they seem dead. I _feel_ dead. My entire body feels sunburnt from magical exposure and there’s a tremor running through me that I cannot control. Even my magic feels drained and worn. I barely have the strength the push myself up to a sitting position; Apparition is out of the question right now. 

The Dark Lord is standing above the now whole circle of glass. It’s no longer black, though; now it looks strange, almost like luminescent water. The Dark Lord waves his hand and conjures a black clothe. It flutters down gracefully, covering the glass. My eyes rise to meet those of my Master and he smiles at me. It is a chilling, skull-like expression.

_Domine, exuadi orationem meam._

“Tell me, Sssssseverussss . . . The boy . . . Has he a loyal Knight and true?”

I tell the truth. It feels strange on my tongue. “He has no one, my Lord.”

He has me.

_Et clamor meus ad te veniat._

The Dark Lord laughs as the others begin to stir. He turns his back to us and returns to the dais. Nagini follow and coils up at his feet while he sits. “You are all dismissed,” the Master hisses in a whisper. He sounds oddly pensive. 

I stagger upright, trying to ignore the pain in my body. Lucius also rises and follows me to the door. The others are not far behind. I wrench off my mask in irritation as we cross the threshold of the Manor. There is a loud pop behind me as someone Dissparates. 

_“Has he a loyal Knight and true?”_

Something about the question eats at me. 

Lucius falls into step beside me as I slip my mask into my robes. I look at him for a moment out of the corner of my eyes and some flash of altruism bids me to lean over. “You are going to get yourself killed, Malfoy! And me along with you and your idiotic theatrics.”

Lucius reaches up and removes his mask very slowly. He turns with the same slow profundity and offers me a wan, bitter smile that makes my skin crawl. “So? It would probably be better that way. You’d know better, Severus, if you had seen what I’ve seen.”

I take an involuntary step back and he turns away, tucking the porcelain mask into a sleeve in his robe. “Take care of my son for me, Severus.”

He Dispparates with a loud pop before I can reply. It’s just as well—I’ve already failed at that task anyway. I can only protect one person at a time and Draco has somehow fallen out of the running. 

_“Has he a loyal Knight and true?”_

I Apparate to the edge of Hogsmead, Lucius’s words chasing one another about in my mind meaninglessly. If you repeat something long enough, it becomes meaningless, the words lose form and identity and the syllables bleed together in your mind. _“Take care of Draco for me, Severus.”_

Severus. Lucius only calls me by my first name when he wants something, but my instincts tell me that that isn’t the case here. Is he truly so far gone? The gates of Hogwarts appear in the distance. I adjust my path accordingly. 

I am sorry, Lucius. For you. For Draco. For Narcissa. But sacrifices must be made and I long ago resolved to only make the ones I could live with. Draco wants me to be a buffer zone between himself and Dumbledore. He thinks to use me to save himself—and his family—without paying any of the consequences for the Malfoy’s ill-conceived alliance. I am paying for my own sins; I will not be burdened with the sins of another.

I deleted everything from Draco’s memory. His message. His warning. And Harry Potter sitting on my lap looking for all the world as though he belonged there. I will not allow some idealistic Gryffindor and an upstart Malfoy to upset my tightrope act. Even if that Gryffindor is Harry Potter and that Malfoy is one of my own. Control is a choice. I will be in control. I will not fail; I will not fall. Not to the Dark Lord, not to the Great Albus Dumbledore, not to a pint-sized dragon, and certainly not to small hands, green eyes, and an overly conspicuous scar. I will die first.

And I will not allow Harry Potter to occupy any more of my time than necessary.

. . . Or so I tell myself.

_Do this for the remembrance of me._

I meet with the Headmaster. Make my report like a good little spy. Albus asks me about Potter. Says that he’s worried. Prods me to “get to know the boy.” 

_Shut up, Albus. Shut up. I can only protect one person at a time. Shut up._

Albus is a bastard, but I can only glare and ignore him. Why is he doing this to me? But I know better than to protest. I know this game too well. All the ducks in a row. Hammer down the nail that sticks up. The squeaky wheel gets the oil.

How dull.

 _I kissed Harry Potter._ I want to say it. To scream it. To shove it down his throat until he chokes on it and can no longer feign ignorance. _I pressed him against the wall, tore open his robes, and slid my hand down his pants. I tasted that mouth, pet that pretty sixteen year old skin._

I want Albus to stop pretending that it’s alright and that it’s normal. I want him to stop trying to use this to bind the boy to him. Or maybe to bind me to him. The old man’s not ignoring this out of the goodness of his heart. Or perhaps it’s just pity. Pity for that pretty little boy who’s going to die. Pity for me, who already has. But this is my life, not a study in pity.

So shut up, Albus.

 _I slapped Harry Potter_ , I want to say. _He came to me, put his heart at my feet, sat in my lap and begged me with pretty demands, unaware of the erection beneath him. He ran his hands through my hair. And then Draco came in and caught us, caught me robbing the Gryffindor cradle, and I was ashamed so I Obliviated him. And I was ashamed and threw Harry off of me. And I was ashamed and slapped that sweet, protesting mouth. That hungry sixteen year old mouth that tastes like butterscotch._

“I would not ask this of you if I didn’t have to, Severus.”

Shut up, Albus. That’s what I want to say. Shut up and stop pretending that it’s alright that I desperately want to rape a child. Because he _is_ a child and no child can consent to such a thing. _Harry Potter_ cannot consent to such a thing. So shut up.

But I can’t say it.

The squeaky wheel gets the oil. Liars. The squeaky wheel gets replaced. 

And so I remain silent. 

Not a squeak.

And the Headmaster leans back and sits through my reports and stops promoting pedophilia. Thank you, Albus.

“Lucius wants me to look after Draco,” I murmur at the end. My voice is empty. Detached. “I Obliviated him last week. He knew I was a spy.” The lies flow so easily these days. Ignominy.

Albus watches me sternly over the rims of his ridiculously small glasses. As if he didn’t know before. “I trust you did no damage.”

“Draco is fine.” For now. “But I cannot protect him.”

“Send him to me.” He strokes Fawkes’s breast absently, his piercing blue eyes boring into me painfully. “The Order can look after him. Are you sure that you do not know what the glass could be for?”

I shrug tiredly. No. No. No. “I have no idea.” I’m so tired. “But he did say something odd . . .”

The hand stroking Fawkes abruptly stops.

I swallow heavily. “He said to me, ‘has Potter a loyal Knight and true?’ Do you know what it means?”

The blue eyes look away and I have to hold back a sigh. But Albus looks troubled and that in turn troubles me. Irritating as it may be, I prefer that unnerving, omnipresent twinkle to its alternative. 

“Sir?”

The old man just shakes his head unhappily. “I do not know, my boy . . . But I will look into it. Will you be on hand to do some research? I understand that you’ve been quite overwhelmed between teaching, Voldemort,”—I hide a flinch—“and my own demands on your time.”

“I will do what I can.” I always have. “Have you made any more progress in the Occlumency?”

“No . . .” 

Fawkes makes a noise in the back of his throat. It sounds oddly indelicate for a phoenix in full plumage.

“Severus—”

“No.” If I let him finish the question, then I probably will be forced to agree. “I will not resume the lessons.” Please Albus. Please. I don’t want to hurt him more than I must. I cannot be alone with him more than I must. And the memory of him lying helpless and semi-conscious on my office floor is more arousing than I ever let the reality seem.

But Albus’s eyes are hard. “Severus, he saw the meeting tonight. Yet again. Madame Pomfrey had to sedate him. This cannot continue. And whatever is blocking his Occlumency is also acting a sieve for his magic.”

 _“He saw the meeting tonight. Yet again.”_ I ignore the comment—deny it. Potter should never have to see me prostrate myself on the ground. Kiss another man’s robes. Beg for mercy. I feel ill. 

“He’s already a wizard of respectable power.” The hissed words taste like ashes on my tongue, and the compliment, unintentional as it may be, is almost a physically painful admission. 

“Respectable,” the Headmaster agrees, “but not formidable. You can _feel_ his power in him, Severus, just as I can. That power must be trained before he loses his temper and lashes out at someone.”

Something in the way he says that—the firmness . . . the fear—makes me take notice. What happened this summer? The answer suddenly seems much more important.

“I cannot trust the boy.” And I can’t. I cannot trust him anymore than I trust myself. He’s too determined. Too curious. And too bold by half. As much as I envy and even crave those traits in him, they terrify a part of me. I can only protect one person at a time. And I can’t protect Potter from himself if I’m too busy trying to protect myself from him. “And he needs you, Albus, not me.”

The words seem to stun us both and I wonder how they even made their way to my mouth. But they’re true and Albus knows it. Harry— _Potter_ needs a father. A mentor. A friend who is not a child. Because no other child has ever born the weight that Potter does. Except, perhaps, a poor pureblood boy of little import who came to Hogwarts a hundred and fifty years ago. Albus was bred for Grindelwald just as Potter has been bred for the Dark Lord, though Albus was never so intimately connected to his foe. I know this and he knows this. He can offer Potter a support that no one else can. Potter needs a man to respect and emulate. 

I am not that man. Nor do I want to be. What I want is something wholly different, and probably even worse than demanding a child save the world.

Sad blue eyes look at me for a long moment and I find myself shifting in my chair uncomfortably.

The squeaky wheel gets replaced. 

_Squeak. Squeak. Squeak._

And then Albus smiles and looks so proud of me that I have to close my eyes and turn away. Fawkes ruffles his feathers as Albus begins to twinkle at me. I scowl.

“You are a man of curious, but profound wisdom, my friend.”

No, Albus. I am a child molester.

_Squeak. Squeak._

When I’m finally given leave to return to my quarters, it’s three am. _“He saw the meeting tonight. Yet again.”_ The boy is asleep in my doorway. How he even found out where my quarters are is beyond me, but he found my workroom, didn’t he? Potter, it seems, is also a man of curious wisdom at times.

Tomorrow I will have to remember to move my workroom.

I step over him, take twenty points from Gryffindor, and, after closing the door on his comfortably rumpled body, summon a House Elf to wake him and shuffle him back to the Hospital Wing where he belongs. It’s cowardly and I know and I don’t care. I’ve found that—to an extent—I can live with being a coward. Besides, students should not fraternize with teachers. It is an unequal relationship. The Hogwarts rules even say so.

I’m too old for this.

Before I go to sleep, I give twenty points to Gryffindor. For tenacity.

. . .

_Squeak. Squeak. Squeak._

One person at a time, Severus.

  


**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~* **  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translated from Latin:**  
>  _Kyrie eleison._ \- Lord have mercy.
> 
>  _Quia tu es, Deus, fortitudo mea: quare me repulisti, et quare tristis incedo, dum affligit me inimicus?_ \- For Thou, O God, art my strength, why hast Thou forsaken me? And why do I go about in sadness, while the enemy harasses me?
> 
>  _Ostende nobis Domine, misericordiam tuam._ \- Show us, Lord, Thy mercy.
> 
>  _Et salutare tuum da nobis._ \- And grant us Thy salvation.
> 
>  _Domine, exuadi orationem meam._ \- O Lord, hear my prayer. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Et clamor meus ad te veniat. _\- And let my cry come to Thee.__
> 
>  
> 
> ***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~* ******


	6. Four II: The Homage Due

**_  
Where the Heart Moves the Stone_**  
~ Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc ~  
\- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
10.7.2003

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  


  
**~ Chapter Four II ~  
The Homage Due**   


  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***   


  
“Come take my body,  
Come take my soul;  
Come take me over,  
I want to be whole.  
Come take my body,  
Come take my soul . . .”  


  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**   


_I_ t was raining. Large, heavy drops of water fell from the iron gray sky and splattered messily on the muddy earth. It was strange to see when one really thought about it; a single drop made only the faintest noise, but a million drops together created a sound that drowned out even the thunder. There was always strength in numbers—even for something as small and finite as a single raindrop.

The lesson was not lost on the creature that was once a cocky young man named Tom Riddle. His red eyes stared out at the overrun, weather-beaten landscape of Riddle manor as he let the rain soothe away his headache. It was the boy, of course. He was distressed about something. Their connection only seemed to be getting stronger as time passed and the idea of killing the child—though still the most practical thing he could think of—was slowly but steadily losing its appeal. It would be like cutting out a part of himself. Of course, push come to shove, the Dark Lord had little problem with sacrificing a pound of flesh for his birthright. He had already given his mortality, had he not?

But there was such _spirit_ in the boy! And such power. Waste had always disgusted Voldemort. Not that he thought that Harry Potter would join him . . . No. He was not such a fool as that. But the boy would make a lovely ornament if properly controlled . . .

Red eyes flickered from the window to the large, round sheet of glass on the table across the room. It was still covered, of course. Proper control . . . That would be the key. The child—because however phenomenal his luck, he _was_ still a child—could then be disposed of at his leisure. 

“ _Still,_ ” he hissed in parseltongue to the heedless rain, “ _there is something terribly romantic about a torn prince trapped in a tower for all eternity._ ”

 _The Curse indeed . . ._ The thought flickered through his mind darkly and Voldemort hissed out a harsh laugh.

One hiss answered another as Nagini slithered out of the chair she’d been curled up in. ‘ _Master . . .?_ ’

He watched the snake with an expression that was as close to fondness as he could emote. “ _Just thinking of a joke I heard,_ ” he hissed, cruel mirth still evident in his voice.

The enormous green serpent slid across the moth-eaten carpet towards him. ‘ _A joke . . .? And am I to be privy to this . . . joke?_ ’ she hissed softly. ‘ _Or is this still about your big water-glass?_ ’

Voldemort’s head swayed from side to side slightly. “ _Big water-glass, pet?_ ”

‘ _The glass that looks as though it is made from water,_ ’ his familiar explained.

The Dark Lord turned back to the window and watched the wind howl outside as the serpent pulled herself up off the ground to wrap around one of his legs and drag herself up his body. “ _That is a gift. But it is also part of the joke._ ”

‘ _Oh?_ ’

He patted her triangular head as her coils adjusted around him more comfortably. “ _Yes . . . That ‘water-glass’ is going to kill two birds with one stone._ ”

Nagini issued a sharp hiss of irritation. ‘ _Stop being cryptic. You’ve found a way to deal with your traitor, I take it?_ ’

“ _Yes . . . And I have managed to secure my very own spy in Gryffindor Tower. Well, . . . a spy after a fashion._ ”

He sighed, a shadow of a smile warping his non-existent lips as he stared out at the rain. It was beginning to abate somewhat. “ _Revenge is so delicious . . ._ ”

‘ _I don’t understand why you simply do not kill him,_ ’ Nagini hissed grumpily. She did not like the rain. It made her feel heavy and lethargic. ‘ _If he merely goes back to the old man with news, he is a security risk. Would it not be wiser to torture him for information and then dispose of him?_ ’

“ _Perhaps . . . Though it would be a good deal less fun. There are many ways to destroy a man, pet, and psychological pain can be far more effective than physical pain at times._ ” 

He stared out the window a bit more, apparently lost in thought. Finally he sighed and turned away to stride over to the table which held the glass. Nagini shifted and hissed happily as they drew closer to the blazing fire. Voldemort ignored her and reached out to run a long, white finger over the thick cloth that covered the glass. 

“ _No . . ._ ” he hissed at last. “ _I am well pleased with this plan . . . Whatever torrid little affair Severus has involved himself in with Potter is most amusing . . . and most advantageous_.” The cloth felt cool and smooth under his touch. “ _He will either place the boy precisely where I want him: helpless . . . desperate . . . Or he will kill him. Either way, Severus and the bumbling old fool lose, and I win._ ”

Nagini loosened her coils around her master so that she could slide to the floor. ‘ _And how do you know that his attachment to the Potter is such that he will care whether or not the boy lives or dies?_ ’

The man looked down at his familiar once more, fondness again shining in his crimson eyes. “ _Because, though my treacherous little serpent is a passionate man, he is not a man given to indulging in passions. For Ssseverus to have fallen so far, so fast . . . and at such a great risk to himself . . .? No. I doubt that even he truly knows how deeply he is already in by now. And by the time my plan unfolds, he will have nowhere to turn. Besides, he takes back nothing of great use to the old fool. Better the enemy that you know to the one you do not. **I** control what Dumbledore hears now. And Dumbledore does not even know it. If Severus thinks he can be Potter’s Knight, I’ll not begrudge him of that. He is, after all, a Slytherin—and we have never been long in the habit of denying ourselves our . . . amusements. But he will pay the price for such audacity. The boy will fall into my web—he’ll not be able to help himself. But he will soon grow weary of shadows and turn to Severus, and then . . ._ ” He trailed off, one finger still running up and down the cloth.

Nagini watched him for a moment with sharp black eyes. Finally she nodded. ‘ _A pity, though,_ ’ she hissed as she curled up at the fire. _‘I rather enjoyed Snape’s . . . spirit . . ._ ’

Voldemort turned back to the covered glass and hummed something under his breath. “ _Perhaps my little serpent will surprise us yet . . . Severus has always managed to surprise us. If he chooses not to let Potter die, neither of them will be fit to stand against me._ ” The stroking hand made a fist. “ _The Light will crumble and the wizarding world will fall at my feet like a rotten fruit._ ”

‘ _And the boy?_ ’

This time when Voldemort smiled, it displayed all of his fearsome teeth. It was a macabre expression, devoid of pleasure or humanity. “ _He is a bothersome thing, is he not? But he is a part of me and I am a part of him, though he remains unaware. After all, is not this summer proof of that? I at least waited until I left Hogwarts to dispose of my family. He and Severus both have such . . . ample spirits. They would be quite lovely together. Tragically beautiful, I suppose. And their ruin right under Dumbledore’s nose would be a delightful display of my powers._ ”

The snake let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. ‘ _Your torn princes in the Tower, then?_ ’

“ _Perhaps._ ” Voldemort’s eyes flared ominously. “ _After all, I always was a romantic at heart._ ”

 

****

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

Narcissa Lenora Black Malfoy kicked an errant House Elf that did not have the sense to move out of her way as she strode down the hall to her husband’s study. The Elf squeaked in pain as it bounced off the wall, knocking into a table and sending an ancient Egyptian vase crashing to the ground. Another Elf immediately appeared with a crack and repaired the vase before dragging off its unconscious fellow.

Narcissa did not notice.

Lucius had refused to tell her what had transpired at the last Death Eater meeting, instead choosing to lock himself in his study for the past three days. _”I don’t want to worry you,”_ he had once told her when she pressured him for answers. It was his way of saying “none of your business.” 

So now, naturally, all she could do was worry. Draco had not yet replied to her last letter and she was beginning to fear that he would make no headway with Severus. Threatening to reveal the Potion Master’s position as a spy was always an option, but doing so would burn a bridge that their family might yet need. 

She could only hope that they had taught their son well enough to maintain his equilibrium in this little game. Draco had inherited far more of her spirit and far less of his father political sense than she would have liked. If he became too impatient, there was no telling what he might do. He still had not forgiven Potter for rejecting his offer of friendship, even after six years, and the rivalry that formed as a direct result of his little temper tantrum was now an immense stumbling block. If he had been a bit wiser and attempted to approach Potter once again later, perhaps they would not be in this situation. Draco’s problem was that he did not consider the long term plan. Even a Weasley and a mudblood could be tolerated for the sake of getting closer to Harry Potter. Narcissa knew that if Snape scorned Draco’s entreaties, then the boy was liable to do something rash once more.

All in all, it wasn’t something that she was willing to risk. And Lucius’s recent behavior had done nothing to put her fears to rest. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, he still seemed to believe that the Dark Lord was their best chance of survival. That Draco and Narcissa both seemed to wholeheartedly disagree did not appear to factor into his logic—if he was even basing his decision on logic. 

Lucius’s stay in Azkaban prison had affected him in a terrible way. Although he’d seemed to be recovering at that end of the summer, now his condition seemed to be deteriorating. He had “good times” and “bad times.” During the good times, he was the man she married: ruthless, brilliant, and devious—a shocking mix of gentlemanly blue-blooded British kindness and cold, merciless ambition. But during his “bad times . . .” He was dreamy, childish, and apathetic. He became ghost-like . . . It was as though he wasn’t really all there. She couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to him in that hellish prison, but every time the word was even mention, Lucius would simply shut down. Literally. 

Unfortunately, the “bad times” were beginning to happen more and more frequently. Narcissa was at her wit’s end. It was happening at home, at the Ministry, and—worse still—at Meetings. Fudge’s faith in the Malfoy family had already been shaken by that escapade in the Ministry as it was; Lucius’s behavior was only serving to encourage the Minister to further distance himself from the pureblood family. This had to stop. It was becoming more and more apparent to everyone but Lucius himself that he was no longer fit to make the decisions required—especially now that everything was so uncertain.

Something was going to have to give. And, though Narcissa’s heart was breaking and she desperately wanted her husband back more than anything in the world, she was also a Slytherin. A survivor. And she _would_ protect her line—no matter what. 

The ice blonde stopped in front of the heavy oak doors that barred the study from entry, her rich blue silk robes swirling about her ankles. With a wave of her wand and a muttered counter-curse, the door swung open a crack and she carefully stuck her head in. “Lucius? I am coming in.”

When she received no response, the stately woman cautiously pushed the doors all the way open and slowly entered the room. She did not put it past her husband to hex her should the mood so take him; it had happened before. “Lucius?” The doors swung silently shut behind her. “Luc?”

The heavy velvet curtains in the large room were drawn tight, blocking out the sunlight trying to fight its way through the eastern gallery windows. Rows of books lined the walls of both the first and second levels and a narrow spiral staircase lead the way from the richly carpeted floor to the balcony level that spanned across three walls. A large oak desk was set in front of the windows, facing the door so that whoever sat behind it would be backlit by the morning sun, and two heavy chairs with a matching marble-top table were facing the desk. The fireplace was directly across from there, the hearth cold. The scents of carbon, rum, and cold cinders hung in the air, mingling with the usual smells of ink and parchment and giving the room a burnt-out aftertaste that stung the nose. A few potted plants were strategically placed, along with a few bits of elegantly idle furniture, in a moderately successful effort to make the room look not quite so enormous. A frieze was painted on the high ceiling depicting some ancient Malfoy heir in a duel with a nameless opponent, the Malfoy crest of arms set on the tequila sunset backdrop between the two combatants. The scattered Black and Malfoy portraits in the room watched her impassively as she strode across the emerald carpet to the black, low-backed chaise in a far corner next to the fern.

A glitter on the desk caught her eye as she passed and the woman paused, her attention arrested by a large ring of keys setting on the desk. It was her husband’s set of the Master Keys for the Manor. 

She gripped her wand’s handle tightly in her pocket. “ _Accio_ ,” she whispered under her breath. The key ring jingled slightly as it floated over to her, but the man across the room did not stir. She quietly pocketed the key ring before resuming her course.

Lucius was sprawled indolently across the chaise, an empty bottle of rum in one hand and the porcelain Death Eater’s mask still clutched in the other. The black robes she’d last seen him in were still draped over his slender frame and were extremely rumpled. A very faint sour odor hovered about him. It was obvious that he had not moved more than necessary since his return three nights ago. His eyes were closed. “Go away, Narcissa.”

His wife ignored him and settled herself gingerly on a free spot beside him on the chaise. She reached down with a dark frown and pried the bottle of alcohol out of his hand. “You’re drunk.” Her tone was cold and disapproving.

“I failed him. Again.” A slight tremor moved through his limbs. “ _He_ does not tolerate failure.”

Narcissa stared silently at the bottle in her hand, unsure what to say. After a moment she set the rum on the floor and let out a quiet sigh. “Tell me what happened.”

He reported the events of the Death Eater meeting in cold, dispassionate words, slightly slurred by alcohol. His wife listened to the events in silence, trying to glean any and all useful information from his tale. When he finally stopped, Narcissa remained silent for several moments, her green eyes staring down at her tightly clasped hands. She wished that she knew what he was thinking—whether or not this was a “bad time.”

“What word from Draco?” Lucius asked quietly. He almost sounded like himself.

Narcissa started suddenly at the familiar echoes in his voice before turning her face from him and smoothing her skirts unnecessarily. “Nothing.” Her voice was flat with displeasure. “Nothing yet, at least. I am going to write him again tonight.” She turned to look back at him, but his eyes were still closed so he could not see the hard expression in her eyes. “You cannot keep doing this to yourself.”

Lucius opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. All he could see way the dark overhang of the balcony above them. “I will do as I please.”

“Then he will kill you!” the woman at his side hissed. “Don’t you even care?!”

His eyes did not move away from the ceiling. “Tell Draco I want him to stay out of this. This is not his battle. And I want you to go out to the country. Go see my mother. She will take care—”

Narcissa’s face suddenly appeared in his line of vision, her delicate features twisted in anger. “Shut up! Can you not hear yourself? This _is_ Draco’s fight; your bungling has _made_ it his fight! And I will not hide behind your mother’s skirts! I warned you that it might come to this, but you never listened to me. Was your _Lord_ ,” she spat the word with disgust, “really worth your House? Our son?!”

Narcissa pulled away from him and, against his will, Lucius found his eyes following the petite woman as she stood. Her eyes, he noted, were colder than he’d ever seen them before—green ice. He pushed himself upright and the motion made his head swim. “‘Ciss . . .” He reached out blindly for her, only to grasp air as she took a step back. He blinked rapidly, suddenly aware that she’d gotten hold of his wand. When had that happened? He reached out for it again, but she took another step away from him and raised her own wand threateningly. “Narcissa . . .”

“You are no longer fit, Lucius.” She slid her husband’s wand into her pocket beside his key ring, still keeping her eyes and wand trained on the man with whom she was bound to spend her life as she began to rapidly back away. “You are no longer fit to decide your own fate, let alone my own and that of our son. I am relieving you of your duties as the Head of our House.”

Lucius stared at her blankly and tried to push himself up to his feet. His body immediately rebelled and he fell to his knees as a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. He grasped at the chaise to steady himself and stared at his wife, a sneer disfiguring his waxy face. “Narcissa, give me back my wand.” He held out his hand, unaware of the tremors moving up and down his arm. “Give me back my wand and I will forget this ever happened.”

Narcissa raised her own wand slightly in warning. “No, husband. I have allowed this to continue for too long already. You can no longer lead this family; it is time you stepped down.”

Lucius pushed himself shakily to his feet, unable to overcome the effects of the alcohol he’d been drinking. “And who will take over then?” he sneered. He staggered forward a step. “You?”

Narcissa’s heel hit the door and she stopped, her voice still steady. “Yes. Me.”

“Woman, give me my wand!!” Lucius’s legs gave way and he fell to the floor and retched. The acrid scent of bile and partially digested alcohol immediately filled the dry air. 

One hand wrapped around the door handle as she watched her husband shudder while his body expelled the excess alcohol from his system. Her eyes filled with tears at the sight and revulsion turned her stomach. “I love you, Luc.”

She dashed out the door before her husband could recover, slamming it behind her. She fumbled in her pocket for his keys, shoved the proper key in the lock and turned it until she heard the dull click that meant the bolt had slid. Then jerked the key out again before resting her head against the wood. Her body trembled at the groan of outrage Lucius emitted on the other side of the door.

“Lucius . . .”

Narcissa rested there a moment, strangely exhausted and unable to block out the curses and cries that traveled through the wood. There was a shriek followed immediately by the sound of shattering glass somewhere in the study. The woman pushed herself up with a quiet sigh.

“I’ll do whatever I have to do to protect us all, Lucius,” she whispered to the wood, but there was only silence from the other side. “ _All_ of us.”

The matriarch pushed herself away from the door and turned, her skirts billowing around her. “Quipple!”

A House Elf immediately appeared next to her with a crack. The tiny creature had to run to keep up with his mistress’s long strides. “Yes, Mistress? You is calling for Quipple?”

She did not look down. “I will be taking care of Household affairs once more, Quipple. You are to be charged with the care of Master Malfoy again. The same rules apply now that applied this summer. He is to have any and everything he desires, short of his wand or a means of escape. He is not to receive any papers or post and under no circumstances is he to be allowed out of the study.” The human stopped and fixed the Elf with a hard stare. “Do you understand?”

The creature wilted under the imposing gaze. “Yessum.”

Narcissa nodded once and resumed her stride. “Go to the study now and see to my husband.”

“Yessum.” The Elf vanished with another crack.

A delicate hand rose and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Lucius would have to be moved back to the basement when he passed out—at least until things were a bit more manageable. For now he was too disoriented to even think of escaping the study, but he’d be furious with her once he sobered up. The basement was also far safer than any other room in the Mansion. For everyone. And she’d have to write to Draco again—he was taking far, far too long to arrange things on his end. If push came to shove, she would have to go to Dumbledore for help and the very thought of doing that left an acrid taste in her mouth. It was probably best not to let Draco know what had happened with his father, though; he had more than enough to worry about at the moment.

Narcissa pushed open the doors to the bedroom she had shared with her husband for the past seventeen years. She immediately went to her makeup table and unlocked the top drawer where her stationary equipment was located. She paused suddenly, staring at her hands. Small tremors were running through them. Narcissa’s gaze slowly rose from her hand to look at her reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at her was stern and cold—emotionless. It would have been a perfect mask if not for the tears in her eyes.

A sudden crash made Narcissa jump and she turned in her seat to stare down at the keys lying on the floor. Lucius’s keys, she realized hazily. They must have fallen out of her pocket. For a moment Narcissa looked down at the key ring. Then she turned back around, laid her head down on the rich oak finish of her makeup table, and began to sob silently.

 

****

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

“Okay. Let’s look at this objectively.” Hermione ran a hand back through her hair in frustration and looked down at the scroll rolled out in front of her.

Ron was once more perched on one of the sinks behind her and peering over her shoulder. Hermione was seated on the floor which—oddly enough—was not flooded. Another odd thing was that there was no sign of Moaning Myrtle. It was unlike her to be so quiet, but neither Gryffindor was quite willing to look a gift ghost in the mouth. Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom was the only place they could meet without fear of being overheard and the only time they really felt free to have their so-called “Harry Chats” was when they were certain that Harry was firmly ensconced in the Headmaster’s office for tea.

The couple did not feel up to interrogating Harry about what was going on since such a course of action invariably led to the green-eyed boy clamming up, or just flat out ignoring them. Hermione and Ron were almost a little bit afraid to rock the boat. Because of this, most of their interaction was limited to small, silly things. Quidditch, school work, gossip, and occasionally trying to figure out what was wrong with Malfoy occupied most of the Trio’s time. Harry was still unusually quiet though. 

“What’s that?” Ron asked, indicating the parchment at which Hermione was scowling.

“A list of our suspects. It’s fair to say that most of this started when Harry came to Headquarters, right?” 

Ron grunted and the girl pointed with her quill to the name at the top of the list. “Well, Headmaster Dumbledore knows what happened at the Dursleys’. I think that that has a lot to do with whatever is bothering Harry. And there’s always their weekly tea sessions . . . He has to know _something_ about whatever is going on in Harry’s head. Not a whole lot happens at Hogwarts without his knowledge.” She pointed to the next name. “Then there’s Professor Snape. He was really quiet at the start of the term. In fact, he almost seemed to be avoiding Harry. But now he and Harry are constantly at each other’s throats. I had really thought that maybe they had worked something out this summer, but something had to have set the two of them at one another again. We just need to figure out what. He also spent a whole week alone with Harry at Headquarters in July when Professor Lupin was away for the full moon.”

“We should have been able to visit,” Ron groused. “At least for his birthday,” 

Hermione sighed. This was an old topic and she didn’t feel like arguing over it anymore. Instead she pointed to the next name: Alastor Moody. “Moody was the one who went to get Harry from the Dursleys’, so he must know something about what happened there, too. On top of that, he spies almost as much as Professor Snape. If something’s going on, then he’d know.” She tapped the scroll with quill again. “Then there’s Malfoy. He’s been acting very oddly this year. He may have done something to Harry, or he could be plotting something. He can’t be trusted at all.”

Ron looked over the list pensively from a moment, chewing on a fingernail. Suddenly he straightened. “Hang on, what about Professor Lupin?”

The muggle-born frowned down at the parchment, the quill in her hand hovering over it in indecision. “Why the Professor?”

He shrugged. “They were alone for most of August. He had to have seen or heard something. It’s not like they just sat in their rooms crying all month and didn’t talk to each other.”

Hermione beamed up at him and wrote down the werewolf’s name in her clean, precise handwriting. “Good thinking. But where does that leave us now?”

“Mmmm . . .” Ron began to tick the names off on his fingers. “Dumbledore, Snape, Moody, and Lupin.”

“And Malfoy,” ‘Mione added absently. 

“And Malfoy,” he agreed with a frown. “But if whatever’s wrong with Harry started this summer, what would the Ferret have to do with it?”

The muggle-born frowned down at the parchment. “True, but I would rather keep an eye on him than not.”

Ron nodded and tugged lightly at his tie. “Alright, but let’s ignore him for the moment. Other than the fact they’re all professors and Order members, what do any of that lot have in common?”

“They were all alone with Harry at some point right after he reached Headquarters.”

Ron slid off the edge of the sink to plop down next to his girlfriend. “So were right back were we started.”

“The Dursleys.” She looked over at him, agitation plainly written on her. “When he told you he knew about us . . . Did he say anything else? Anything at all?”

The boy shook his head. “Not a peep. But he wanted to, I think. He wants to tell us, but for some reason he won’t.” He scowled. “It’s like he doesn’t trust us anymore.”

A gentle hand rested on his tightly clenched fist and he looked up, suddenly startled by Hermione’s proximity. She smiled at him gently. “Or he’s trying to protect us.”

He snorted and leaned back. “That does sound more like him. But we don’t _need_ his protection. We’re his friends; we’re supposed to be helping him.”

Hermione shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know if we can help him, Ron. After what happened to Snuffles, I don’t even think he wants us to try.”

“Well, we have to do something!”

“Wh—”

A sudden giggling from one of the stalls interrupted her and Hermione stood abruptly, her wand drawn. “Myrtle! Is that you?”

There was another giggle, confirming that it was the ghost, and Ron also rose with a scowl. Hermione’s gaze flickered to him in warning as the girl tried to smother her irritation. She turned back to the stalls. “Well, come out then. How long have you been skulking about down there?”

There came a sudden flushing sound in the third stall to the right, immediately followed by a tremendous gush of water that shot straight up into the air. Hermione quickly grabbed her bag off the ground and set it on the sink as the floor was flooded. As it was, both Ron and Hermione both got spritzed with falling water as the dead Hufflepuff emerged to hover over the toilet, a petulant scowl on her translucent features. “I wasn’t skulking anywhere,” Myrtle whined, oblivious to the flood she’d caused. “This is _my_ bathroom. _YOU’RE_ the ones who don’t belong here!” she snarled at the end.

Ron jumped slightly despite himself. It never failed to disturb him to hear her voice go from sugary sweet to rabid dog in the space of two words. “What do you want, you great floating—Ow!!”

Hermione trod on his foot and shot him a dark look as he started hopping up and down in pain. The ghost’s eyes watched the two of them in a blatantly calculating manner.

Hermione smiled at the other girl sweetly and pocketed her wand. “Myrtle . . . did you have something to tell us.”

The spirit drifted down towards them slowly, sniffling melodramatically. “I don’t know if I want to tell you.” Her eyes flickered from Hermione to Ron behind her vaporous glasses and her face contorted unpleasantly. “Especially _HIM_ —nasty little boy.”

Ron growled and took a menacing step towards Myrtle, only to be stopped by Hermione’s arm.

“Nonsense,” the living girl replied, still smiling earnestly. “Ron’s just . . . He just doesn’t know how to tell you he likes you.” Myrtle frowned, obviously not liking to be told that her opinions were nonsense, while Ron immediately began making choking noises behind Hermione, earning himself a subtle kick in the shin. 

“We’re here to help Harry,” Hermione continued, still smiling. “You remember Harry, don’t you?”

At the word ‘Harry,’ Myrtle’s cheeks immediately turned a less ghastly shade of silver and her large eyes widened. “Ooooh! I like Harry.” She batted her eyelashes at them with an expression that was most likely supposed to be coy. “I’ve invited him to share my toilet.”

Hermione’s cheeks were beginning to ache from holding onto her smile. “How . . . nice . . . of you, Myrtle.”

“That’s what _he_ said,” the ghost gushed happily. Ron was making a strange wheezing noise behind Hermione by this point in time. Myrtle glared at him spitefully. “He’s such a nice boy. Unlike _SOME_ people!”

Ron snorted.

“We’re trying to help him,” Hermione repeated, ignoring her boyfriend. “He’s been acting a bit queer lately. Do you know anything that can help us?”

Myrtle smirked. “Maybe . . .”

Hermione was practically chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Do you want to help us?”

The phantom’s eyes lit up again. “You mean like a club? A secret club? I’ve never been part of a club before . . .”

“I wonder why,” Ron muttered.

Hermione trod on the boy’s foot again and hissed at him to be silent, but thankfully, Myrtle was so enamored with the idea of a club that she didn’t hear him. She turned back to the spirit. “Exactly like a club,” she confirmed, still smiling.

Myrtle’s eyes suddenly narrowed and she swooped down so that she was right in front of the pair. “This isn’t some dirty little trick, is it?”

“No!” the Gryffindor girl rushed to assure her. “Really!”

Myrtle shoved her face directly at Ron, catching him off guard. “And you? What about you?”

“Err . . .” The redhead leaned back in an attempt to escape the girl looming before him. “Good to have you aboard, mate . . .?”

Myrtle did not seem to notice his obvious lack of enthusiasm because she immediately beamed. “Okay.” She pulled back and smirked. “The first night of term I was in the dungeons trying to find the Baron. Peeves was picking me again.” Her eyes suddenly seemed to glow. “He said I had _SPOTS_!!!”

“Er . . . Myrtle?” Ron coaxed in an attempt to get her back on topic.

She frowned at him, but resumed her story, her ghostly hands smoothing down her robes as she spoke. “Anyway, I was down in the dungeons when the door to Professor Snape’s workroom burst open and Harry came running out. He didn’t even see me. He ran right into some little First Year who was lurking heading up the stairs—knocked the poor girl into one of the empty classrooms, he was going so fast. He looked . . . upset. Then Professor Snape came out of the door and looked after. He looked upset too. For a minute, it looked like he was going to go after Harry, but instead he said a _very_ naughty word and hit the door frame with his hand. Then he went back in the workroom.”

Ron immediately pulled away and let loose a low growl that sounded remarkably like the words “mangy, greasy, slimy git,” but Myrtle still wasn’t done.

The ghost leaned forward again conspiratorially and smirked. “Then, about a week ago in the evening, I saw him go down to the lab again. He left the door open just a crack, so I peeked in. They were arguing. Harry wanted the Professor to do something, but the Professor said that it wasn’t allowed and he’d get sacked. Harry called him a coward and the Professor ended up slapping him.”

Hermione gasped and Myrtle made no effort to hide her excitement at being able to share such gossip.

“Harry fell down onto the floor holding his cheek and the Professor rushed over to him and scooped him up and held him for a moment.” She pulled back and sighed. “I don’t know what happened after that. I heard someone coming and left. But they looked close.” Her eyes gleamed. “ _Very close_ , if you get my meaning.”

Hermione looked away from the vulture-like expression on the ghost’s face and felt slightly sick. Ron remained very, very quiet. The muggle-born turned to face her boyfriend. “Ron . . .? You don’t think—”

“If it is . . .” Ron’s voice sounded scratchy and weak, “If it is . . . like that . . . and they—I mean, if Harry didn’t want to . . .” He turned to look at her and his eyes were dark. “He’d have told us, right?”

“Harry and Snape hate each other,” the girl murmured helplessly.

Ron wordlessly pulled Hermione into a hug. Myrtle watched the couple pensively. 

After a moment, Hermione pulled out of the embrace and turned to the spirit. “Myrtle, have you told anyone else this?”

“No.” The dead girl looked affronted. “Why?”

Hermione’s eyes were steely. “This is a secret club, Myrtle, and we are the only members, so you mustn’t tell anyone else, alright? You have to keep this a secret.”

The ghost pouted but acquiesced after a moment. “Alright. But only if you tell Harry to come visit me in my toilet. It gets so lonely in here.” She cast them a backwards glance before zooming back to her U-bend without a waiting for a reply, sensing perhaps that they needed space to deal with what they’d just learned.

The chime sounded, warning that it was almost curfew, and Hermione began to gather her things. Ron watched her in silence for a moment.

When he spoke, he sounded oddly distant. They hadn’t had much cause for laughter this year, it seemed. “‘Mione . . . If they were—”

“Myrtle might be mistaken.”

He frowned down at her. “Maybe. But if they were . . . And Harry wanted it . . . What do we do then? Do we tell? Or . . . or . . . what?”

Hermione stared blankly down at the ground, her hands limp on draw strings of her bag. “I don’t know, Ron.” She bit her lower lip and watched her reflection blur as ripples moved through the water that covered the floor. “I really don’t know.”

 

****

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

 _My dearest Dragon,_

_I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits. I understand that your dear friends have been ill and I hope that whatever they have has not been catching. Your father sends his love. He has been away at business meetings quite often of late and I worry that our close friend may be working him too hard. His headaches, I fear, have not improved._

_Also, he worries over your grades, particularly in Potions. He knows that you have been having difficulty in Severus’s class of late. I know that you have told Severus of the circumstances imparted to you in one of my previous letters, but you have yet to notify me as to his reply. Though he and your father were never truly close, he has always seemed to hold a certain fondness for you. I hope that he will take this into account, as well as the extra-credit I know you have been working on, when tallying your final marks._

_But surely all this dull news and chiding bores you. Tell me, have you made any new friends? I know how important it is to you to expand your horizons. Your father is still set against such things, but I can only see advantages in the possibilities._

_All of our friends are doing well, although your aunt’s migraines seem to have become worse. Our dearest friend is most pleased with himself. It seems that he has bought, through foreign contacts, a new mirror. It appears to be magical, but we do not know its purpose. He has mentioned that it may be something his little cousin would be enamored with and has proposed sending it to him. Personally, I do not think his cousin will care for it and suggest you buy him something to make up for the shoddy gift. It is important to use such opportunities to your advantage, gift of my heart, when they arise. Perhaps your dear Potions Master will be able to help you select something. As history has shown, he has impeccable taste where that darling child is concerned. It is wise to accept help when one can._

_Otherwise, though, poppet, there is little news to report from home. Work has been as dull for your father as ever and I have suggested a change in careers. This damp air is not good for his health and I am in favor of all of us taking a holiday in Australia or the Americas if his health does not soon improve. The Minister, bless his heart, also seems concerned with your beloved father’s health, as does our old friend. I fear that one or both of them may insist that he visit Saint Mungo’s until he is well enough to resume his duties. My heart shudders at the thought of being without its guiding light. I could perish from loneliness. But hearing from you heartens your father._

_Despite what he may do or say, he truly loves you, little Dragon. You are his pride and the joy of my heart. Please write back and know that we are always thinking of you and I eagerly await your letters._

_You loving mother,  
Narcissa Malfoy_

 

The wind blew Draco’s hair in his eyes as they flickered back and forth from word to word. He couldn’t make sense of it. Oh, the coding of the letter was simple enough to decipher, but he felt as though he were missing great chunks of information. What message? He honestly could not recall giving Snape any message of any type. Not this term at least . . .

Silvery blue eyes rose from the parchment to stare at the lake. The sunlight sparkled over the water almost playfully, but the boy was in no mood to savor nature. Something had to have happened to him. Something was missing. He tried desperately to think back over the past few weeks, but could not solidly remember any real interaction with Snape outside of classes. His brow contorted in confusion. There were faint images of Snape quarters . . . An argument of some sort . . .

The memories slipped away from him like silverfish, gone before he could even really focus in on them. It was giving him a headache. 

At his side, his sleek eagle owl hooted softly in concern, the proud creature nipping his sleeve lightly in a bid for his attention. Acutely aware of how bewildered he must look, the Malfoy heir frowned and gently rubbed his familiar’s head. 

“I don’t know,” he told the owl, frustration evident in his voice. “It’s like the memories are there, but—”

Abruptly Draco paled and stopped talking. The answer came to him in a rush and the realization terrified him. He was alone, without allies, and hopelessly exposed. And worse yet, he didn’t even know what was going on anymore.

Someone had Obliviated him.

 

****

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

She stood in front of the mirror in the Girl’s Dormitory and frowned at her reflection. It was her nose—definitely her nose. That’s why he didn’t look at her.

Or maybe it was her eyes. Brown was a terribly boring color. 

Ronald Weasley’s eyes were ice blue. Hermione Granger’s, a foresty, marble-like hazel. Even _his_ eyes were the brightest, deepest green she had ever seen. She had spent hours staring at photos of his eyes. Everyone he loved had remarkable eyes. 

Even that greasy old man. Snape’s eyes were black. Black was a non-color, the result of a surface absorbing all light rays and never giving anything back. She had learned that in art class. She was a good artist—one of the best in her primary school before she got her Letter. 

Yes. It was her eyes. Her plain, ordinary, brown eyes.

Nothing about him was ordinary. Nothing was what one expected. She had thought he’d be taller, but somehow it made sense that he wasn’t. She had thought he’d be bigger, but there was something to be said for his willowy frame. She had thought he’d be louder—bolder, but his relaxed, down-to-earth-ness was beautiful. He was beautiful. And brilliant. 

And so much better than Snape.

The man had obviously bewitched him.

Perhaps if she got contacts he would stop looking at Snape and look at her.

He didn’t even see her. Not at the meals, not between classes, not in the common room. He didn’t care. Even when he had knocked her down that night in the dungeons, he didn’t see her. 

But she saw him. She saw Snape assault him that night. She saw the way he looked at the man sometimes. 

Watching Harry Potter was an art, and she had always been a very good artist.

She would get contacts over Christmas holiday. Black ones. Maybe then he would see her.

He had to see her soon. After all, she was so much better than Snape. Than a teacher. Than a _man_. Her family would be so proud when they started dating. Their children would have his eyes, of course, and her smile. She had a pretty smile.

He would see her and realize that they were obviously meant to be together. He would see her—really SEE her—and love her just as much as she loved him. She’d heard about him for four years straight. Every letter home, every photograph, every adventure and exploit. She _knew_ him, knew him better than she knew herself. She knew his favorite food, his favorite color, his favorite tea. She knew that he was afraid of Dementors and the werewolf Remus Lupin was a friend of his parents. She knew that he didn’t eat Hagrid’s treacle fudge and he didn’t talk about his muggle relatives. She knew that, just like her, he was from the muggle world. 

And she knew that he was having an affair with that monster Snape. She had seen it. 

But that wasn’t his fault. No. Because Harry Potter did not have affairs with Severus Snape. Snape was a creep. He was unfair and picked on them all. Snape got his kicks from tormenting little children. Snape was wicked.

Everyone knew that.

Snape had seduced Harry—forced himself on the poor boy. She shuddered to think of what her beloved must have endured. Everyone knew that Harry hated Snape. And everyone knew that Harry Potter as most certainly NOT gay, or homosexual, or whatever those people called themselves nowadays.

Harry was just confused. This was all Snape’s fault.

But she would help him; she had to—no one else could. They had a bond—a deep soulful connection. He would see her and realize that.

She would make him realize that.

The girl stared into the mirror for a moment longer, picturing herself with black eyes. She would be beautiful.

Yes. Everything would be perfect. She’d be loved by Harry and accepted by everyone: the students, the staff, the Headmaster, the Weasleys—everyone. She would save Harry and everyone would see how marvelous she was, especially Harry.

Because she loved him.

  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  



	7. The Lion Bound Come Dawn

**_  
Where the Heart Moves the Stone_**  
~ Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc ~  
\- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
10.7.2003

**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**~ Chapter Five ~  
The Lion Bound Come Dawn**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

“So the priests and the prophets and all the people heard Jeremiah speaking these words in the house of the Lord.  
“Now it came to pass, when Jeremiah had made an end of speaking all that the Lord had commanded him to speak  
unto all the people, that the priests and the prophets and all the people took him, saying,  
Thou shalt surely die.  
“Why hast thou prophesied in the name of the Lord, saying,  
This house shall be like that Shiloh, and this city shall be desolate without an inhabitant?  
And all people were gathered against Jeremiah in the house of the Lord.  
“When the princes if Judah heard these things, then they came up from the king’s house unto the house of the Lord,  
and sat down in the entry of the new gate of the Lord’s house.  
“Then spake the prophets unto the princes and to all the people, saying,  
This man is worthy to die, for he hath prophesied against this city all the words that ye have heard.”  
\- Jeremiah 26: 7-11

****

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  


_H_ is palms were sweating. His head ached and his back hurt a bit, but his palms were sweating and that was a problem. That was also why the vial slipped from his fingers. He saw it fall—really he did—but he couldn’t seem to make himself move to catch it. When it hit the floor, it exploded with a loud popping noise, sending bits of glass and pungent oil everywhere. Every one in the room froze.

A pair of deep black eyes set above a large, hooked nose narrowed dangerously. Heavy, oily hair moved slightly as the man turned, venom in his eyes and hot, blistering hatred in his voice as he hissed, “Twenty points from Gryffindor for sheer stupidity!”

The boy looked up from the shattered vial on the floor and stared blankly at his Professor from behind thick, coke-bottle lenses. 

The girl at his right side stiffened indignantly. “But, sir, he—”

“And twenty five from you, Granger, for condoning stupidity and another fifty from Finnegan for failing to recognize said stupidity and stop both of you from acting like idiots! Now clean up that glass, Potter!”

Severus’s robes belled out around him as he turned back to the board, oblivious the outraged mutter that spread out among the students in the classroom. Not even the Slytherins were willing to risk the ire their Head of House lately, particularly during or after Sixth Year Advanced Potions. For the past two weeks, Snape’s famously incendiary temper had been stoked to new, never-before-seen heights. At first the phenomenon had seemed localized around Harry Potter, the Potions Master’s usual source of rage, but then the mood started to spread to all of Gryffindor, then to Hufflepuff, then to Slytherin, and finally to Ravenclaw. 

It was the inclusion of Ravenclaw that caught everyone’s attention. Although it was well known that Snape favored Slytherin outrageously, he had always been nothing short of painfully even handed when it came to the House of the Raven. By the end of three weeks, all the Houses were down a record 1150 points total (210 of which Snape had actually docked from his own House), Gryffindor alone had received a record breaking 127 detentions, half of the Hufflepuff First Years literally burst into tears when Snape entered the room, a Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw prefect had _both_ been stripped of their badges by the enraged man, and most of the faculty looked like they would keel over if Snape said “boo” to them over tea. But of course, saying “boo” would require that the prickly man actually spoke to them, which he did not.

What was even stranger, though, was that Harry Potter—who was more often than not the recipient of insults that had driven Padma out of the Potions classroom in tears from simply hearing them—remained uncharacteristically silent. In fact, he seemed to be flat out ignoring the man, which only served to incense the prickly Professor further. In retaliation a variety of colorful adjectives and adverbs were used to describe everything from Harry’s hygiene to his to his ability to think—or the lack thereof—regardless of whether or not Potter was present to hear them. The more astute students noticed however that Snape remained silent on the subjects of both Harry’s parents and Sirius Black—omissions that no one could quite puzzle out.

The fact that most of Snape’s temper seemed to be turned against his Sixth and Seventh Year classes—both of which had students from all four Houses because they were the Advanced courses—only served to spread Snape’s latest insults around the school even faster. Theories about Snape’s behavior seemed to become fixed conversation topic, raining down in the four Common Rooms like post owls on Christmas Eve. Everything from Snape was in trouble with the Dark Lord, to Snape was pregnant (the latter assertion being the only working theory the Third Year Hufflepuffs were willing to contribute) were tossed about with relish. Colin Creevey had put forth the novel idea that Harry and Snape were involved in a tempestuous affair and had broken up—unfortunately he did this in Harry’s earshot and he learned firsthand just how strong the slight Seeker was when a camera was flung at the muggleborn’s head. The incident quickly put to rest any further rumors about the Potter Heir, if only within the confines of Gryffindor Tower. 

The Camera Incident also became Potter’s only real statement on the Snape’s behavior; snarling and profanities that made the underclassmen squeal were not considered statements. Ron and Hermione also remained silent on the subject. Hermione, because if Harry was not going to stick up for himself in the face of Snape’s wrath, there was little she could do, and Ron remained silent simply because he was not there for the majority of the conflicts. 

Though Harry’s OWLs (and some coaxing from the Headmaster) were barely enough for him to scrape into Advanced Potions with, Ron only received an Acceptable. The youngest Weasley son was actually pleased with the result though. He’d had more than enough of Snape to last a lifetime. Unfortunately, without his explosive temper, and in the face of Harry’s sudden passivity, the tension in Potions simply seemed to rise and rise, spilling out into the hallways, classroom, meals, and Common Rooms. Dumbledore either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because he had yet to step in, so Hogwarts was simply left to stew in the juices of Snape’s discontent.

The entire school was a pressure cooker waiting—desperate—to blow. And then, the day before Halloween, it did.

Harry walked around the worktable, knelt, and waved his wand above the mess of glass and swine educe on the floor of the dungeon. Hermione watched him with worried eyes while Snape scrawled more directions on the board in a jagged, angry hand. From his seat across the aisle, Seamus also watched his friend. Harry’s behavior had been queer enough without Snape tormenting the poor boy even further. Though he’d not quite had the nerve to say anything, Seamus rather fancied Harry—just a teeniest, tiniest bit—and he was beginning to really worry about his Housemate.

His sea-green eyes flickered up from Harry and he was surprised to find himself staring into Hermione’s hazel gaze across the aisle. He frowned at her and mouthed _‘What’s wrong with him?’_ , careful to keep his back to the girl beside him, Hannah Abbot. Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she looked over at her Housemate in blatant consideration. He bristled in response, frustrated that one of the infamous Trio would consider him so beneath their secrets. He could feel his upper right lip twitch towards a sneer and would have turned away if Hermione had not mouthed the word _‘Lunch’_ to him before turning back to the Vision Potion they were brewing. Seamus turned back to Harry with a dark frown.

Hannah poked him in the side and he scowled at her. 

“Snape’s watching us,” the petite ash-blonde girl murmured as she stirred her cauldron. “We don’t need anymore attention from him. Anyway, it’s almost time for you to add the acromantula eyes to your potion.”

The Irish boy nodded grudgingly and reached out to get the dish of large black orbs Snape had provided each student with at the start of class. He nearly dropped it in startlement when Harry suddenly gasped in pain. Hannah rescued the eyes from the Gryffindor’s carelessness as the boy blanched at the hunched over form to his right. There was blood on the floor. Seamus dropped to Harry’s side and wrapped an arm around the other’s shoulder as he tried to get a good look at the boy’s wounded hand. Harry pulled away, drawing the injury in towards his stomach defensively.

Green eyes latched onto Seamus and Harry smiled shakily. “It’s just a scratch. Really, I’m—”

And then Snape was there. Seamus yelped in protest as a strong hand seized him by the back of his neck and jerked him roughly away from Harry, literally throwing him back to his table. “Don’t you _touch_ him!!”

The Irish boy cried out in pain as his hip slammed into the corner of the table. Hannah squeaked in fear and Hermione’s spoon fell from her hand in shock as everyone else turned their attention to Round Two of the bi-weekly Snape-Potter Brawl. 

Seamus had hit the edge of the table hard, and had to grab it to stay on his feet. Still breathless, he wheeled on Snape, but the older man was no longer paying attention to him, his gaze locked onto Harry with a terrible intensity.

“You stupid child!”

Harry flinched uncharacteristically and looked up from his position on the floor to the man looming over him menacingly. The action revealed a large bloody gash running across his palm. Seamus winced and Snape leaned over, more than slightly reminiscent of an enormous vulture eyeing still-twitching prey. The Potions Master sneered as blood pooled in Potter’s palm and spilled down to stain the dungeon floor.

“You stupid, idiot child!” the man hissed again venomously, eyes burning with a nameless emotion.

Harry drew his wounded hand closer to his body, hunching over it protectively, and remained silent. His face seemed very pale and his eyes looked far too large through his glasses as he stared at the professor in silence. The cow-eyed, empty expression only seemed to make Snape even angrier. 

The professor reared back like an angry serpent and sneered in contempt at the boy. “Not simply content to go spilling everyone else’s blood, I see you now feel the need to be so careless with your own, Mr. Potter. Fifteen points from Gryffindor for your ever-astounding inability to learn from you plethora of past mistakes. One would imagine that by _this_ point in time, you would be more careful around sharp objects—even _you_ should now how valuable blood can be to wizard. Why you have not yet died is beyond me.”

Harry’s jaw clenched and his nostrils flared. Two vividly red spots appeared on his cheeks as his uninjured right hand clenched slowly into a fist. For a moment it seemed like the explosion was imminent—Snape had never gone so far before, never. But then the teenager simply let out a sudden huffing breath, closed his eyes, and carefully unclenched his fist. He opened his eyes again and stared at the man expressionlessly. “I apologize for disturbing class, sir. May I go to Madame Pomfrey?”

Seamus imagined he could have heard a pin drop in the silence.

Both the Professor’s hands clenched into fists and it looked for an instant at though he were going to throttle the boy. Instead he spun sharply on his heel and stalked to his desk. His voice was a guttural growl: “Clean up your mess and get out of my sight, you pathetic waste of magic. To think that Lily Evans wasted her life on _you_. And back to work, you lot, before I dock even more points!”

The boy rose to his feet, looking shaken and far too pale. He seemed to be trembling slightly. He gathered his books and packed up his ingredients as best he could one-handed so that they weren’t in Hermione’s way. As he lifted the last vial, he paused suddenly and turned to frown at Snape’s back where the man was shuffling papers. Hermione tugged on his sleeve nervously when she saw the shadows flickering in Harry’s eyes. He pulled his arm away.

“Harry, no—!” she hissed, trying to mind her own potion and keep hold of him at the same time.

The boy ignored her. “I didn’t ask to survive, you know,” he said softly to Snape’s back.

Hannah froze in the act of adding centaur hair to her potion and Seamus took an involuntary step away from Harry, completely forgetting about adding anything more to his own cauldron. Snape froze in the midst of his sorting and abruptly stood up straight. He turned with exaggerated slowness and smiled, a horrible parody of expression, as he settled back against his desk. Harry’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, but he maintained eye contact with the older man. 

Snape watched the boy in careful consideration and tilted his head ever so slightly to the left. “Then you’d have done us all a greater service if you had died.” 

The class watched with a detached kind of horror as all the blood literally seemed to drain from Harry’s face. 

Snape leaned forward slightly, obviously enjoying the boy’s duress, as he continued. “Then at least she would be alive and contributing something of value to the world instead of sucking the life out of those around her.”

Everything stopped.

The entire vial of goat’s blood in Harry’s hand fell into his cauldron as he froze, slack jawed and face unnaturally white as he stared in stunned disbelief at his professor. The potion immediately solidified, but no one seemed to notice. The glassware on Harry and Hermione’s table began to tremble and shiver before exploding with loud pops, immediately followed by the destruction of the glassware at the neighboring workstations as a wave of uncontrolled magic rolled off the Boy Who Lived. 

Blood, swine educe, and a number of unpleasant things flew as the students ducked down beneath their tables. No one seemed to quite be able to believe what they had heard Snape say. He’d gone too far. Potter’s body began to tremble violently and Hermione, Seamus, and Hannah scrambled to get away from the impending destruction. Power leaked out of the boy like a sieve. 

Snape had finally gone too far.

The two stared one another in the eyes, seemingly unaware of their audience. No emotion flickered in Snape’s eyes when Potter took a step forward, nor did the man retreat. He just looked . . . cold. The teenager stared up at him for a moment longer before whirling around with a strangled shriek and fleeing. The door to the classroom exploded when his hand touched it, sending bits of wood and debris everywhere and making the people in the back of the room scream in fear and pain when they were hit, and the air physically rippled as the boy ran, knocking down portraits and shaking the castle with every footfall. Snape—the only person still standing in the room—stared at the hole where his door had been blankly, seemingly unaware of the blood that slid down from the cut on his cheek.

Less than three minutes later, the Headmaster appeared in the doorframe, eyes devoid of any twinkle, and ordered the students out of the classroom. Potions was canceled for the rest of the day.

The incident spread through the school like wildfire. Seven students were in the hospital wing to have bits of glass, wood, or metal removed from them, but no one was seriously hurt, and Harry . . . Harry was not seen for the rest of the day. Whatever Dumbledore had said to Snape also seemed to have thoroughly cowed the man because he did not appear for dinner and that evening Dumbledore awarded every House five hundred and seventy points each for “tolerance in the face of great adversity,” the old man had explained with a smile. Seamus tried, and somehow failed, to accost Hermione at every possible moment of the day, and none of the Trio attended meals.

The next day—Halloween—passed in relative quiet. The pumpkin juice was just as cold, and the décor just as ostentatious, but there was a muted energy in the air. Potter skipped all his meals, including the Feast, and Snape remained holed up in the dungeons for the evening.

In fact, he stayed down there for three days straight after the “explosion” and none of the Gryffindors were willing to account for Potter’s whereabouts with anyone outside of their House all weekend. It was a strange thing to see Gryffindor closing ranks so fiercely and abruptly. Any and all muttering about Snape was quickly squelched by McGonagall, who seemed to have taken to hovering over her House like a dragon with one egg. Her own anger was plainly evident, though, and Slytherins—who were wisely keeping their own council on the situation—actually took to hiding from the irate witch when they saw her coming. Seeing the normally impulsive Gryffindor temper held on such a tenuous leash was alarming, but the rest of the faculty simply seemed to be giving the whole incident a wide berth. 

Perhaps McGonagall’s temper was also why Snape was hiding in the dungeons. Some people even whispered that he’d been sacked, but no one really believed it was true. For the most part, the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs simply talked (albeit quietly, and away from the professors) about what a close call that had been—though no one was sure exactly for whom it had been so close. Dumbledore acted as though nothing untoward had occurred at all, Professor Kettleburn took over Potions on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, and McGonagall looked ready to hex anyone at a moment’s notice. Despite the explosion in Potions, the tension in the school had gotten worse, not better. And so everyone simply sat back and waited for the other shoe to drop.

****

  


*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


Old Ogden’s finest. Finest indeed.

I have been smashed for three days straight. This morning I woke up to find that Tuesday had somehow become Saturday and all my liquor had mysteriously vanished in the night. Dear old Albus Dumbledore. Bloody Lord Albus Fucking Dumbledore. I will poison that man’s food one day, I swear it. Or better yet, those damned sticky, potion-laced lemon drops.

I hate him.

And I also hate the fact that all my headache and hangover potions are mysteriously missing as well. And that I can no longer seem to move without immediately collapsing again. Bloody fucking sadist. Giving me a taste of my own medicine, no doubt. 

There is nothing like waking up in a pool of one’s own vomit and being forced to remain like that for an hour to promote introspection.

I am not proud of myself. Nor am I proud of my actions over the past three weeks. Nor am I proud of how pale his face went when I wished him dead.

Nor am I proud of the fact that I meant every word.

I. Meant. Every. Word.

Because it is true. Without Harry Potter, the Dark Lord would not have been resurrected. Without Harry Potter, I would not be feeling this . . . this . . . this disgusting desire. Without Harry Potter . . .

The world would be exceedingly dull without Harry Potter.

. . . Merlin’s beard . . . I’ve become a Gryffindor.

That thought alone is sufficient enough for me to force my body up and into the shower. The room swims sickeningly and a few bouts of uncomfortable dry heaves accompany me across my chambers to the loo. It takes me much longer to make the journey than it rightfully should. I cannot find my wand and buttons have moved from being a stately fashion statement to an insidious device of bondage and torture. And if I am not mistaken, the vile scent of semen and urine clings sickeningly to my person.

I retch again at the smell and tear frantically at my collar in frustration, scratching my throat as painful dry heaves shake me. I’m lucky I didn’t suffocate last night. Or this morning. Or whenever it was that I managed to pass out. And I am never ever again going to wear buttons. 

I rest my head uselessly on the toilet seat and wonder why my mirror has yet to make any snide comments. A closer inspection of the floor makes it evident that I have smashed my mirror. It probably deserved it anyway. But now my arms suddenly ache fiercely and I notice blood in my cuffs and that my nails are torn. Suddenly, I’m rather glad that I don’t remember the past two days—they cannot have been exceedingly pleasant.

To hell with the buttons then. Goddamn, bloody fucking buttons. I loathe buttons. Why did I ever think _buttons_ were a good idea? I push myself off the toilet and the room sways again, driving me to my knees. Not standing up again, then.

Fucking Albus Dumbledore.

Fucking buttons.

Fucking green eyes.

Stupid Severus Snape.

Glass cuts into my knees and hands as I crawl across the bathroom and somehow clamber into the tub. I turn the water on—all hot, no cold—and curl into a miserable ball in the corner, directly beneath the spray. My stomach roils at the noise and my head begins to throb so painfully it feels as though my eyes are actually bulging out with every pulse. The noise is painful, but it cannot drown out the noise in my head.

_“What have you done, Severus?”_

_A snort. Derisive laughter. “I’ve merely done as you asked, **Headmaster** . . . Did you not want me to be **there** for him? To **talk** to him? Well, now I have.” More laughter. Out of control laughter. Hurts._

_“You will calm yourself, Severus.” Cold. So cold. “Now.”_

_Albus could be so cold when he wanted to._

_Never mind that the disappointment in the old man’s voice was a knife through Severus’s gut. Never mind that the expression on Harry’s face was a brand on his soul even worse than the one on his arm. Never mind that he bloody well **ached all over** and only wanted to go find the boy and—_

_Never mind all that._

_Never mind how Potter looked so perfect curled up in his doorway, or fit so delicately in his arms. Or pouted beautifully. Or tasted like butterscotch. Or had the audacity to **miss** him. Never mind how exquisite it felt to whisper ‘Harry’ when he was alone at night and hold the word close to him like a secret. Never mind all that._

_Never mind._

_“Two weeks suspension, Severus.”_

_Oh, shut up, Albus, shut up. Shut up and leave me to my deviance._

_Contempt in those blue eyes. Disappointment. So much disappointment. Merlin, and the class was a mess. Blood on the floor. Glass everywhere. Quite a mess._

_“Get a hold of yourself, man.”_

_Ah, but contempt and disappoint in those blue eyes was better than pain and rage in the green ones._

_Green eyes._

_Damn them all to **hell**._

I shiver beneath the painfully hot water. What a pathetic, miserable wretch I am. What a fool. And the memories will not let me be. But that is alright—I deserve this.

Pedophile.

Murderer.

 _Monster_.

Hot water. Hotter, and hotter, and hotter. I wish it could scald me away, or at least make me feel clean.

I was right, though; it would have been better if he had died as a baby. If he had died, I would not be sitting, reeking, hung over, and fully clothed in the bottom of my shower, desperately missing him.

****

  


*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


Fawkes cooed melodiously as a murmur of discontent rippled through the office. Albus ignored the noise of the portraits and phoenix in favor of crunching up a cockroach cluster. He rolled the chocolate coated confection about in his mouth as he watched his deputy headmistress, amusement sparkling his eyes despite the solemn expression on his face.

Minerva frowned. “I beg you pardon, Albus?”

“I said I would like you to . . . nudge our young Mr. Potter in Severus’s direction.”

The woman’s lips drew into a thin, sour line and she set her teacup back in its saucer and on his desk with a loud click. “Out of the question.”

Albus popped another cockroach cluster into his mouth. “Now, my dear—”

“No, Albus! Absolutely not.” Her eyes flashed menacingly behind her glasses, a lioness defending her cub. “He’s been nothing but ghastly toward that poor child for years. Potter has enough to deal with without Severus adding to the pile. He _still_ is not himself after that . . . that _incident_ in Potions on Tuesday. He won’t even leave his bed!”

Albus sighed heavily and his eyes ceased to twinkle. “Mr. Potter has not been himself all term, Minerva.” He leaned back and suddenly looked incredibly old and frail, as though the proper weight of his years had finally gotten the better of him. “Though his grades have improved and he is growing into his power by leaps and bounds, he moves about like one who is asleep. Not even Quidditch has roused him from his melancholia.”

“And you believe that Severus will?” the witch demanded, making no effort to hide her derision.

Albus steepled his hands in front of himself pensively. “Severus’s behavior—”

“Severus’s behavior is atrocious! He is awful to the boy!” Minerva rose and began to pace, her skirts whispering silkily about her ankles as she walked. “Awful!” she reiterated emphatically. The tight bun on the back of her head shivered with the violence of her pacing and her hands fluttered about like two snared birds trying to escape. “Pott— _Harry_ is in pain, Albus! He’ll not talk to me! And Granger and Weasley are keeping mum too. I am at my wit’s end! I can hardly penalize them when all of their grades are going up—as if it was possible for Granger’s to go higher—and it’s not as though they’ve done anything bad, but it is clear that something is very _wrong_! Even Granger and Weasley seem to be going along with it now. The three of them barely talk to anyone outside of each other and Potter’s been in his bed ever since Tuesday afternoon. The only ones he’ll say more than two words to are Granger and Weasley and they will not tell anyone anything! I need—I need . . .” She stopped pacing abruptly, her skirts swirling lightly with momentum, and her fluttering hands suddenly flew in to cover her face.

She stood still for a long moment and Albus rose slowly, a look of deep sorrow and concern etched starkly on his face. He reached out tentatively. “Minerva . . .”

And she released a shuddered breath that would have been a sob from any other woman. “I do not know what to _do_ . . .” she whispered miserably behind her hands.

Albus dropped his hands and looked down at the clutter on his desk.

The Deputy Headmistress lowered her own hands and turned, sharp eyes uncharacteristically imploring behind her small, wire-rimmed glasses. “What point is there in defeating You-Know-Who, Albus, if there is nothing left for the boy afterwards?”

He remained silent and Minerva shook her head. “I will not entrust that boy to Severus Snape, Albus. You may trust Severus with your life, but I will not trust him with Harry’s. No.”

The old man looked up at her and met her eyes evenly. “Then entrust him to me, Minerva. Trust _me_.”

The woman’s lips thinned unhappily as she stared at him for a long moment. Finally she looked away and smoothed her skirts anxiously, seemingly thinking over his words. Eventually she sighed, a tired sound. When she looked up, the conflict she felt was clear in her eyes. “Very well, Albus.” She took a step forward and pointed a finger menacingly at her old friend. “But if you break that boy’s heart again, Albus Dumbledore, I will never forgive you.” She whirled around, dress swelling around her with the motion. 

“Minerva?”

She paused, one hand on the doorknob, and turned to face the Headmaster. “Yes?”

He looked back at her, twinkle noticeably absent. “Thank you.”

She sniffed and stalked out of the room, the door closing loudly behind her and her heels clicking on the grinding stone steps as she descended. 

Albus sat down heavily and stared into the fire for a moment. In all honesty, he was both furious at Severus and bitterly disappointed in the man. When he had first discovered the Severus was . . . involved with Harry, he knee-jerk reaction had been to toss the man out on his ear, if only so that he wouldn’t have to feel such a keen sense of failure every time he saw the Potions Master. But it was so out of character for both of them and they were both so terribly miserable, and they were both dying, bit by bit, in their own way, and nothing he had done was helping . . . 

Albus squeezed his eyes closed in pain and weariness. So many failures . . . Tom, Severus, Peter, James, Lily, Sirius, Remus, Cedric, Harry . . . How many more could he bear? Was it so selfish of him to think that he could foster just this little bit of happiness before he died? And if it ensured Severus’s loyalty beyond any doubt . . . And if it made sure that Harry was loved and didn’t turn out like Tom and was just a _bit_ more malleable . . . Then so much the better. Everyone would benefit, especially two of the people who were most important to him. Harry and Severus would be _happy_ , if only for a little bit. That was not such a terrible thing, was it?

The old man turned away from the fire in disgust. This was why Harry did not trust him—why Severus kept him at arm’s length . . . This was why the two men he considered to be his own children would not look him in the eye. How long had it been since he had last looked at a person without simply seeing a chess piece?

Blue eyes opened again. But sacrifices had to be made. He trusted Severus and Harry as much as he trusted everyone, but that simply was not enough. He needed more. He needed to _know_ without question that Severus would not return to Voldemort should the situation so warrant. 

He knew that Severus resented him, just as the Potions Master resented himself. The Snape heir was proud man—he did not bow to anyone unless he felt he had a damn good reason to do so. Bowing to two masters chafed the man’s ego badly and was beginning to wear thin. It was easier before Voldemort’s first defeat. Then, the taste of Severus’s disgust with the Death Eater business was fresh enough in his mind to distract him from Albus’s machinations. Then, while Voldemort was gone, Severus’s pride was not so strained; he could breathe a bit easier and his debt to Albus seemed less severe. Now, though, both Voldemort and Albus were pulling him in opposite directions and it would not take much to tip the tenuous balance Severus kept one way or the other. Albus was sick of having a middle man. He wanted a bona fide spy, and the only way to get that was to find something to bind the man to him definitively. 

Harry was the only vulnerability Severus had ever shown in all these long years. He’d be a fool if he didn’t take it. Though he was loathe to use the boy in such a callous fashion, it was really the best course of action available. Originally, he had brushed Severus’s preoccupation with Harry off as a Life Debt. Then he just thought it was genuine dislike. Third year, he had thought that Severus’s zeal to capture Sirius and keep Harry in the dark about the whole thing was bred simply from a hatred for Sirius. But then he’d been so frantic—almost panicked—when Harry had vanished at the Tri-Wizard Tournament that Albus had begun to suspect there was a bit more to Severus’s preoccupation with Harry Potter. A preoccupation that, in retrospect, was rather alarmingly close to fanatical obsession masked as hatred. If he ever really did manage to get Harry expelled, Severus would probably be beside himself after the initial glow wore off.

And then there was Harry. Harry had never seemed to give the other man any sort of notice until the end of Fourth Year, and even then it was only cursory interest. But Severus was a stabilizing force for him, and the only thing besides Quidditch and Voldemort that the boy seemed to pay any heed to anymore. And the indications of the Scaccarium and carunculous were concrete and absolute: without Severus the Light would fail, and, if deprived of Severus, Harry would die. They might be able to win if Severus’s and Harry’s . . . ‘interactions’ ceased, but Harry would not survive the final battle. No matter how he arranged the pieces of changed the boards, without Severus Harry would die, and, in most of the arrangements, Severus died soon after. 

And he _was not_ going to let that happen. To either of them. He was going to save them even if it killed them.

It was rapidly becoming clear to him that Severus would accomplish nothing with Harry if left to his own devices. So then a little push was necessary. Albus had hoped that, by telling Severus he was on his own in this, the Potions Master would take some initiative and not do everything humanly possible to sabotage this relationship. Apparently, though, he had underestimated Severus’s curiously paradoxical self-destructive urges. Though the man might balk at anyone else “ruining” or threatening his life, the former Death Eater seemed to have no qualms about doing so himself. Or perhaps it was possible that his concern for Harry was such that it outweighed him normal admittedly self-involved first responses. Given the two people he was dealing with, Albus was willing to believe anything was possible. But whatever the reason, it was creating an unnecessary stumbling block. 

It was time to put an end to this childishness. He may not be able to force the Severus into the boy’s arms, but he could certainly give the man a good, hard shove in the proper direction.

Albus straightened up and arranged his robes about himself more neatly before removing one of his ever-present tins of lemon drops. He really could not get enough of them. The fact that this particular tin was laced with Calming Potion also helped, though. Setting the tin on the desk beside him, the old man removed two scrolls from a drawer in his desk. The First scroll had arrived by way of a post owl this morning. The creature had looked rather irate when it flew into his open office window and dropped its burden on his desk. It hadn’t even stopped for payment before leaving in an irritated rush of feathers that had made the molting Fawkes squawk in protest. 

The paper of the scroll was thick and expensive and the heavily spelled large wax seal of the Snape Family stood prominently on the front, the heavy tome, crossed rapiers, and the circle of the serpent biting its own tail in the backdrop showing in sharp, brilliant emerald relief. There was no addressee, but the Crest made it obvious for whom it was intended. 

He set that scroll aside with a sad look and took out a Phoenix feather quill, dipped it in his inkwell, and turned to the second scroll. This was merely a blank general scroll that students used for lessons. He scrawled out the words _“Come and see me immediately. – A.D.”_ and muttered an incantation. The scroll vanished in a puff of gold smoke, leaving only the lingering scent of caramel in the air.

Albus settled back in his chair, ignoring Fawkes’s soft, supportive croon and muttered another incantation. A steaming cup of tea appeared next to him with a pop, but he did not touch it beyond charming it to stay hot. He had a feeling he’d be needing it by the time he was done. 

“Dobby?”

The House Elf appeared with a loud crack. His normally bright eyes seemed watery and his ears dropped pitifully. Even his Hogwarts tea towel, almost lost beneath the bright gaudy swirl of his mismatched additions, looked a bit less crisp and smart. He shuffled forward, apparently unaware of the sock on his left ear, his tennis-ball eyes swimming in unshed tears. “Yes, Master Dumbledore, sir?”

The old man smiled at the Elf and held out his tin of candies. “Would you like a lemon drop?”

The Elf shook his head and the Headmaster retracted the proffered tin of candies. “What have our boys been up to then?” he asked, gesturing for the little creature to take the seat Minerva had just vacated. 

Dobby pulled his tiny frame up into the chair and squeaked in surprise when the seat resized itself to fit his proportions and rose so that he was at a reasonable height with his employer’s desk. He fidgeted with his tea towel for a moment, wringing the fabric nervously in his hands. “Winky is watching Professor Snape like Headmaster Dumbledore is asking, sir. She is telling Dobby that Professor Snape is waking up at today at two o’clock, sir, and is then going into the bathroom and taking a shower in his clothes, sir.” The Elf gave a sigh so low it seemed to have risen up from the floor. “He is being in a foul mood all yesterday, sir. There was screaming and crashing about, sir. And much glass breaking. Tinkle, from the pantry, is going in to ask if Professor Snape is needing help and he is hexing her _twice_ last night, sir. Winky is having to take Professor Snape’s wand and is hiding it in his study. Now none of the Elves is wanting to go clean up the mess he was making. We is afraid that the Professor is being cross with us, sir.” He shivered. “Dobby is not being scolded by Mr. Death Eater Professor Snape, sir, but Winky says she is not minding because Master Barty used to be having him his fits too. Winky is saying that this is the mark of a passionate man, sir. But Dobby . . . Dobby is thinking that Professor Snape is just being wicked, sir—” 

Suddenly the Elf’s already large eye widened impossibly and he blinked stupidly as though drugged. “What a positively horrid thing to say.” 

He immediately surged forward, and it was only the intervention of Dumbledore’s aged hand pressing firmly against his forehead that stopped the Elf from smashing his face into the edge of the desk as punishment.

“None of that now,” the human admonished firmly before Dobby could injure himself.

The Elf pushed against Dumbledore’s hand in protest, his yellow-green eyes rolling in distress. “Dobby is not to be saying such things about Hogwarts Professors! Even if they is being wicked and is hurting the Master Harry Potter sir!”

Albus blinked and wondered if the Elf was calling him ‘sir’ or if ‘The Master Harry Potter Sir’ was Harry’s actual title to the little creature. Dobby strained forward again, reminding Dumbledore once more of his self-abusive tendencies. He held his hand firmly against the pressure and smiled faintly. “Well, little one, perhaps you should not, but in this case we’ll overlook your indiscretion, hmm?”

Dobby hesitated for a moment and then pulled back to sit in his chair, shame coloring his papery skin. “You is very good to Dobby Professor Dumbledore, sir,” he murmured, looking down. He looked up at Dumbledore, earnestness shining in his eyes. “But Dobby is getting better, sir! You and Master Harry Potter sir is helping Dobby. Dobby is not punishing himself as much. Even if he thinking wicked things sometimes . . . Dobby is getting better, he is, sir.”

The man smiled sadly at the desperate need shining in his employee’s eyes and could not help but curse Lucius Malfoy for hurting this poor creature so. In general, House Elves were naturally subservient, but they were not as . . . pathetically needful of validation as Dobby. That was a product of his former Master, not his natural magical inclination. He leaned forward and patted the nervous creature’s hands gently, smiling proudly. “Yes, Dobby. You have gotten much better. I am very, very proud of you.”

Dobby beamed joyously and Albus settled back in his chair. “Now what of our Harry Potter?”

The Elf immediately drooped again. “Dobby is keeping him company while he is being in bed for the past two days, wrapped up in a great black cloak. Dobby is cleaning Gryffindor Tower and then making sure Master Harry Potter sir is well. Dobby is staying as long as he can, but Master Harry Potter sir is knowing that you is asking Dobby to sit with him.” The tears reappeared but did not fall. “But Master Harry Potter sir is not talking to anyone but Ms. Spew and his Wheezy, and when they is talking, his Wheezy is asking Dobby to be getting food or something to drink, or parchment, so Dobby is not hearing what they is saying. When Dobby is coming back, they is talking about school.” 

The Elf seemed to wilt in his chair as he continued. “Master Harry Potter sir is asking Dobby many questions about House Elves and sometimes about Professor Snape, but he is not saying much when Dobby is asking him questions. Sometimes Dobby is hearing him whisper Professor Snape’s name or cursing, and sometimes . . . at night, when Dobby is bypassing the silencing charms to check on Master Harry Potter sir, he is …” the Elf turned an intense shade of scarlet and he looked at anything but Albus, “ _calling_ for Professor Snape to . . . Err . . . asking him to . . .”

The Elf fidgeted and the Headmaster watched him curiously before understanding bloomed on the human’s face. A faint blush stained the old man’s cheeks, clashing with his lavender robes. “Ahh . . . I see . . .” He cleared his throat to push down his laughter at the Elf’s obvious discomfort. “Continue please.”

The little creature looked absurdly grateful and seemed to leap forward in the conversation, unable to fully banish his blush. “But Dobby does not know anything but that. This morning before Ms. Spew and the Wheezy is leaving, Master Harry Potter sir is getting out of bed though and taking a shower. He is seeming much better after that, sir, and was smiling and laughing with his Wheezy. They is not mentioning Professor Snape, but Dobby thinks Ms. Spew and the Wheezy is knowing something. Now he is being on the pitch, sir, flying. That is all Dobby is knowing.”

Albus nodded and smiled congenially at the still-blushing Elf and ate another lemon drop. “Thank you, Dobby.” A chime suddenly sounded, alerting Albus that someone was approaching the Gargoyle, and his eyes flickered to his clock. Severus’s hand was pointing to “My Office” and the words “Miserable wreck” were scrawled in a bruised-looking color up the hand. Harry’s hand was at “On the Pitch” and the words “Being obstinate” were scrawled on it in blazing red and gold lettering.

Albus heaved a long-suffering sigh and popped two more lemon drops in his mouth. “If you will excuse me, Dobby?”

The Elf nodded, not the least bit offended by being so suddenly dismissed, and vanished with a crack. The chime sounded again and Albus reached out a hand to stroke Fawkes’s breast as the slightly bedraggled bird came to rest on the back of his chair. “Please excuse me as well, Lamia, Phineas?”

The two portraits started, each shooting him separate looks of annoyance, but both remained silent as they vanished from their frames. He was more grateful than he cared to admit, even to himself. Fawkes cooed one last time and took off, flying out of the open and leaving a few coppery-crimson feathers in his wake. It would be his Burning Day soon enough.

“Come in, Severus.”

The door swung open and Albus schooled his features into a stern mask. It took much less effort than he would have liked. The younger man shuffled in and the Headmaster almost had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Severus looked . . . _simply awful_.

There were dark circles under his haunted, sunken eyes and his still-damp hair was lifeless. His left hand was twitching almost incessantly and he was staring at the floor. The typical ebony robes, though clean, looked ill fitting, the buttons done up all wrong. His pale skin also had a distinctive greenish tint and there were scratches on both his hands and his throat.

“Oh, Severus . . .”

The other man stopped nervously in front of his desk, shifting about like a First Year. He looked up, his dark eyes surprisingly bloodshot, and licked his dry, cracked lips. “I . . .” His voice cracked painfully and his winced, lowering his tone to a harsh, grating whisper. “I could not find my wand . . .”

And there was simply so much _shame_ in his voice that Albus felt his heart breaking. But he didn’t dare show it. Instead he reached into a drawer, removed one of the hangover potions he’d taken from the man’s quarters last night, and pushed it into his hands. 

“Sit,” the old man ordered.

Severus sat and fumbled with the cork with shaking hands before opening the vial and downing the draught. With only slightly steadier hands the empty vial was placed on his desk and the man settled back in the chair Dobby had so recently vacated, now resized for humans.

Albus watched him with uncharacteristically hard eyes for several long moments. The desk seemed to have become more than a simple bit of furniture; it was a separation of power and privilege, an expanse that neither man could surmount. And neither particularly wanted to. 

Severus, because he was ashamed and Albus because he really was _furious_. He had entrusted Harry to Severus—not in so many words, of course, but the sentiment was the same. He had entrusted Harry to Severus and the man had completely and utterly failed him. 

Severus was a difficult man, and really ultimately a selfish man. Albus held no illusions about his Potions Master. But what happened Tuesday was unconscionable. And worse, Albus had allowed it to occur. Minerva had warned him. Filius had warned him. Even Hagrid had said that something unpleasant was brewing. And yet he had done nothing. He had hoped that they would work their difficulties out themselves. He had hoped that Severus would display a level of maturity comparable to that which Harry—a _sixteen year old_ —was displaying. He had hoped that, just once, Severus would not do anything to shoot himself in the foot.

And he had been bitterly, bitterly disappointed.

So now, he would fix this mess. Before it got any more out of hand.

Severus began to fidget on the other side of the desk. His left hand had latched onto the arm of his chair with a death grip; it was the only way to make the spasms that shook his fingers stop. His right knee swayed from side to side in agitation.

“Severus . . .” 

The man started at the sound of his employer’s voice and found himself looking up at Albus despite himself. He swallowed, but remained silent as the Headmaster’s eyes bored into him.

“What _happened_ last week?”

For a moment Severus lips twitched silently, as though sounding the words out to see if they would fit. Finally, he turned away from Albus to stare into the fire with dead eyes. “I cannot bear to be near that child.”

Albus pursed his lips sternly. “And why ever not?”

“Don’t ask this of me, Albus,” the Potions Master muttered in a hoarse, agitated tone. His right hand clenched and unclenched convulsively. “Please . . . Do not ask this of me.”

“Then explain yourself. If you cannot do so, Severus, I will have no choice but to take harsh action against you. I do not wish to take punitive measures.”

Severus froze like a rabbit and his head whipped around to stare at Albus, dark eyes wide. “All for Potter?!” he hissed, both angry and stricken.

Albus leaned forward in his seat and his voice fell over the room with the same abrupt flatness as a crack of thunder. “ _NOT_ just for _Harry_!”

Severus’s eyes narrowed and a spasm jerked through his left hand. “He—” He choked on the words as Albus rose suddenly.

“You _threw_ a student across the room! Mr. Finnegan went to Pomfrey with bruises on his neck and side, Severus. Bruises from where you grabbed him and tossed him into a lab table.” His eyes seemed to burn as he loomed over the desk. “You are out of control. You snap at the staff, you snarl at the students, all of the Houses are down near negative points because of your temper. I have tried to be patient in the hopes that you would overcome your issues with Harry, but you have continually disappointed me in this regard.”

Severus flinched. 

Albus sat down heavily and gave the other man a level look. “No more, Severus. We do not have time for this inane bickering. _I_ do not have time for it. Nor does Harry. This must end.”

Severus pulled himself up in his seat stiffly, grappling with both his aching body and shattered pride. “Oh? And only I am to be held accountable for this? What of Potter?” He spat the word ‘Potter’ like a curse. “I cannot abide the child’s presence. I cannot—” He choked off the words, snarling, and wiped a heavy hand over his mouth to clean away the froth he could feel gathering there.

_I cannot be without him._

“ _Harry_ ,” the Headmaster said sharply, emphasizing the name heavily, “has not voiced any complaint against you this year, Severus. None at all. Not even on Tuesday. The only reason I came to see you was because he ran into me on the way out of the dungeons. He told me nothing. He was far too upset at the time anyway. But, in light of the past few weeks, the state of your classroom, and the fact that magic was rising off the boy in waves, it seemed clear to me that _something_ had happened. It was only when I found Mr. Finnegan in the Infirmary on Wednesday that I finally got the whole story. Harry did not even come to his tea last weekend.”

Severus’s thin lips peeled back in a nasty snarl. “The whole story!” Contempt and rage coiled thick in his tone. “You know nothing of the whole story—”

“Nor do I wish to,” Albus retorted sharply with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You are the one who has mucked this up. You will now be the one to fix it. And you _will_ fix it,” the old man declared, his eyes glittering coldly. “I told you this before. You will no longer be able to run to me with your problems. Not for this. You are smarter than this, Severus.”

The Potions Master clenched his fists so tightly that his short nails bit into the flesh of his palms. “Albus . . .” His voice came out as a painful croak and he squeezed his eyes shut as though the act could make this all go away. “Albus . . . Please do not make me do this.”

“You are the one who has created this situation.”

_”You started it.”_

“It is your responsibility.”

Severus twisted in his chair, practically writhing in the seat, something close to hysteria shining eerily in his eyes. His voice was absolutely anguished. “I CANNOT do this!!”

Albus pursed his lips at his student’s obvious plight as his heart broke. “You will resume your Occlumency lessons with the boy.”

Severus blanched and dropped his head so low it seemed as though he was trying to curl into himself and emitted a strange, strangled shrieking noise. 

“Control yourself.” Albus’s voice could have frozen a lit torch.

Severus snarled viciously and his head snapped up. His eyes glowed like trapped animal and he forced his body upright with obvious effort. “So that’s just it? Your Golden Boy snaps his fingers and the whole bloody world just prostrates itself at his fucking feet, doesn’t it?”

Albus’s eyes narrowed. “Your two weeks suspension holds. You have until next Tuesday to collect yourself. Wednesday the Occlumency lessons will resume and you _will **work**_ with him. It is imperative that he master it. That is all I have to say, Severus.”

The man gaped at him. He could not seem to believe what he was hearing. The fists clenched tighter and blood oozed out Severus’s palms onto rumpled black robes. “Have I not served you well?! Why are you _doing_ this to me?”

Albus sighed heavily and a look of infinite sorrow creased his heavily lined face. He stood again and walked slowly around the desk to stand by Severus’s side and gently laid a strong, but frail hand on the younger man’s shoulder. He squeezed hard until Severus looked up at him and tried desperately to display all the love, the pride and compassion, he felt for this man in his eyes. “My dear boy . . . I am doing this _for_ you.”

“Why?” 

The sound was so broken, Albus longed to take the man into his arms as though he were a child and simply try to hold him together. But Severus would never have tolerated that, so he merely squeezed his shoulder again, hoping what little strength he still had could pass through that tenuous link. Severus maintained eye contact and Albus smiled. 

“Because I love you,” the old man said sincerely.

Severus turned away. His voice was still rough. “You are a fool.”

“Yes, I am,” he agreed amiably. He pulled a lemon drop out of one of his innumerable pockets and gave it to Severus. “Eat this.”

As the younger man obediently put the Calming Potion-laced treat in his mouth, Albus returned to the desk and presented him with the Snape Family scroll that had arrived. Severus took it wordlessly and tucked it away with mechanical motions.

“Have another lemon drop,” Albus said, gesturing to the tin on his desk, “and then go downstairs and rest, Severus. Your wand will be back in the morning.”

The man nodded numbly and stood, taking another candy as he went. He swayed when he was upright and had to grip the chair for balance. The Headmaster could only watch in silent sorrow as the young man left, looking half bent over with a curious kind of grief. When he was gone, Albus stared at the closed door silently as he took a sip of his tea. The hot liquid spread through him rapidly, but it did little to quell the churning in his stomach and self-loathing tearing at his heart.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


Harry felt his glasses slide down to the tip of his nose as he stared at the ground. His feet swung idly a good seventy feet above the pitch as he pushed the spectacles back up onto the bridge of his nose. The air was heavy with the tang of unshed rain and the earth seemed to throb and pulse below him. He could feel it inside him.

It was a Saturday, a Hogsmead weekend, and he was the only Gryffindor above third year left in the castle. Though the Headmaster had happily returned his broom with a flourish at the start of the Quidditch season, Harry was still barred from Hogsmead; it was too much of a security risk. This year, however, Harry did not rail against the ban—in fact, he rather welcomed it. 

August had been spent concocting stupid fantasies of him and Snape spending these free hours ensconced in some dungeon room somewhere doing rather improper things to one another. After their last confrontation, though, Harry did not see that happening any time soon—if ever. He rubbed his cheek absently and wondered if Seamus was alright. Now, it seemed, he would be spending most of his time on the pitch. Anyway, after spending three days bed-ridden and wallowing in misery, the cool air and exercise felt good. He was more than a little bit tempted to go poke around the Chamber of Secrets, but he had the sneaking suspicion that Dumbledore had put some sort of tracking spell on him. Besides, though Voldemort had been surprisingly silent in regards to their bond so far this term, Harry didn’t exactly want to invite trouble. 

He had strange dreams some nights. He saw himself walking down to the Chamber and kneeling by a puddle on the floor. He would stare into it and his reflection would morph into a giant basilisk that would then leap through the puddle and snap at him. He always woke up then, though, so he never got to see what happened next. Memories of the vision that had lead to Sirius’s death kept him from wandering down to the hidden chamber, but sometimes when it was very quiet and he was very lonely, temptation was hard to resist.

Snape made him want to do that. Run away. Escape. Throw caution to the wind and simply do what he felt like. The man had a gift for inspiring Harry to do immensely stupid things. Before Snape had just ignored him, as though he wasn’t even worth the Potions Master’s time. Now though, the man was more hateful than ever before. Harry didn’t know which was more mortifying—the fact that he had to sit through Potions with the slimy bastard every week and be insulted steadily for three hours, or the fact that, despite Harry’s growing desire to hex the man, Snape _still_ aroused him. Even after the debacle of Tuesday’s lesson—even though the memory of what Snape had said to him burned him up and made his eyes sting suspiciously, he was still absolutely fixated.

He was beginning to worry that what had started out as mere fancy on his part was turning into an obsession. He couldn’t go through a single day without watching the man—staring, _wanting_ . . . so much . . . And he couldn’t go a single night without dreams of those eyes on him, those hands holding him down, that voice whispering obscenities in his ear while talented fingers tugged open his pants and slid into the slit in his Y-fronts and wrapped tight around his—

Harry yelped suddenly as he found himself slipping off his broom. His hands latched tightly around the broomstick’s handle and he abruptly dropped about fifteen feet before he got a hold on himself. He blushed crimson and looked around furtively; worried that someone had seen him. Harry Potter, Seeker Extraordinaire . . . falling off of his broom whilst having wet dreams about a teacher who wouldn’t touch him with a twenty meter stick . . . His cheeks burned so much that he couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Smooth, Potter,” he muttered to himself as he rose a bit higher. He started a slow lap around the pitch in an effort to rid his mind of naughty thoughts. Really, between Voldemort, the weird puddle in the Chamber, and Snape, he was amazed that he ever got any sleep at all. And poor Dobby, who—thanks to Hermione’s ongoing SPEW Crusade—was still the only Elf who’d clean Gryffindor Tower, blushed every single time he saw him. This, naturally, made Harry blush. The poor little Elf’s face had been glowing like a light bulb for the past four days now and Harry just couldn’t bring himself to meet those enormous, adoring eyes anymore. It was getting to the point where he’d actually considered asking Hermione to help him find a spell or potion that would prevent him from ejaculating in his sleep. The only one he’d managed to find was an unpleasant draught that had a fifty percent chance of turning the drinker into a hermaphrodite. A fully functioning hermaphrodite. Harry wasn’t that desperate—yet.

Not to mention the fact that he felt no need to stoke Ron and Hermione’s growing curiosity. He’d pumped them endlessly for information about Snape over the past few days, but neither of them had anything to report. However, they were beginning to ask him questions that made him rather uncomfortable in regards to their Potions Master. It was their endless questioning that finally prompted him to arise and go out. Had he spent another day in bed sulking, he had no doubt that the two of them would force feed him Veritaserum to get the information they wanted. He couldn’t help but wonder if they were starting to suspect something. How, he didn’t know—he had been careful—but if they went nosing about in this he didn’t know what would happen. Snape had Obliviated Malfoy, his supposed pet student. What would he do to Ron and Hermione, whom he openly disliked? 

He couldn’t let his friends do anything to hurt Snape, no matter how much of a heartless, spiteful bastard the man was. But he most certainly would not allow Snape to hurt his friends, either. The position made him painfully uncomfortable and he didn’t dare let Ron and Hermione know just how _much_ Snape had hurt him. He’d known that this would be difficult, but what would he do if it pitted him against his friends?

Harry sighed heavily and loosened his grip a bit and swung upside down, reveling in the strange rush of hot and cold that flashed through his body as he flew suspended from the broom, barely keeping his grip. Blood rushed to his head.

These thought weren’t helping anything.

As he made a lap upside down, he found himself thinking of Sirius. It wasn’t often that he thought about his godfather intentionally because those thoughts led inevitably to the memory of That Night and his culpability in Sirius’s death. Harry was unable to separate the good memories from the bad memories most of the time. But today he was so uncharacteristically relaxed—so tired, tired of himself, tired of sleeping, tired of dreaming, and tired of Snape—that the memories seemed to be more of a balm than an irritant. Oddly enough, the one that came back to him most often was when Snape had come to headquarters to talk about Occlumency and he and Sirius had gotten into that fight. Harry remembered standing between the two, one hand pressed against each of their chests in a futile effort to keep them apart, while waves of power inundated him, rolling off the two men like thunder before a storm. They’d both been trembling, they were so mad. 

He remembered the uneasiness he’d sometimes feel around Sirius—the trepidation. But there was also love. Love and admiration and respect and a desperate need to _know_ this man. He didn’t know how to describe it. He’d wanted Sirius to teach him, to tell him everything, to be there. He’d wanted Sirius to know everything about him, because Sirius would have listened, he was sure. Sirius would have let him say his piece and then done everything he could to comfort him. Even if it wasn’t the right thing, he would have tried.

Sirius . . .

He really was the only family Harry had had. They had only known one another for a year, maybe two and somehow he’d become so _much_ to Harry.

And now he was dead.

The word was a heavy weight inside him: _dead_. It seemed like it should sound so much more significant than it did. It should have been a strong, long word, not something so small and tame sounding. _Dead._ There was something almost disarming about it.

The Gryffindor swung himself upright on his broom, dipping a bit in altitude to help him pull up. He lay down flat against the broom handle to cut down the wind sheer and began to speed up, pulling back with his thighs so that he’d gradually gain altitude. The wind shrieked in his ears as he began to go faster and faster.

Harry firmly believed that people got to see each other again when they died. He didn’t know about heaven or hell, but there was a place were people got to see each other afterwards. There had to be. There had to be a place where Sirius and his parents and Cedric, Bertha Jenkins, that old man, and all the others who’d died were getting all the happiness they’d missed in life. They had all deserved so much more . . .

He was going to go there when he died, the boy had decided. He was going to get to see them all when it was all over and Voldemort was really and truly dead. The key was somewhere in the library and he was going to find it and kill Voldemort and then . . .

And then . . .

What?

Harry peaked in the air, perfectly frozen in space and hesitating for one marvelous moment as he opened his eyes to an endlessly blue sky.

What then?

He leaned forward, resting his chest against the broomstick and tipping the broom forward. The moment was over, perfection destroyed, and he plummeted to the ground, clinging halfheartedly to the broom handle. This was not flying—this was falling. One hundred percent, nose to the ground, no holding back falling. He felt absolutely alive. The wind screamed in his ears and the earth, a tiny scrap of green beneath him ringed by a minuscule stadium, rose to meet him. 

What then?

He could feel his glasses sliding up his forehead.

Then, he supposed, he’d die. After all, everything dies.

The breath left his body in a sudden gasp as he forced himself to pull up and his broom handle bent and buckled beneath him with the strain. The boy leveled off with barely a moment to spare. In nearly the same motion he leaned hard to the side, forcing his broom to move with him and turning his forward momentum into a smooth circle, so that he wouldn’t crash into a wall. He was still going much too fast to stop, so he flew on momentum. Controlled momentum—he could do that. Sometimes it felt like that was all he was doing.

_“Then you’d have done us all a greater service if you had died.”_

One lap. Momentum.

Dying really couldn’t be such an awful thing, could it? Snape was right—it probably would have been better if he’d died. Died and never ever had to meet Severus Snape, or watch everyone he loved be taken from him one by one. So much better. But it can’t be too terrible to die, right? Because then it would all be over. It should have been a comfort, really; no matter what happened, he’d die and it would be over.

But he didn’t _want_ to die.

And it was all so terribly unfair.

Two laps. He was starting to slow down now. Again. He could feel a familiar lump rising in his throat.

_“Then at least she would be alive and contributing something of value to the world instead of sucking the life out of those around her.”_

He _would not_ start this again! He wouldn’t. Not after he promised Ron and Hermione he’d be okay. And they worried about him so much, and he wasn’t nearly as good a friend to them as they were to him.

_“. . . Sucking the life out of those around her.”_

Harry felt himself slow to a stop and squeezed his eyes closed, clenching his jaw tight. 

The _bastard_ . . . He hated him. He absolutely hated him.

And he didn’t really hate him at all. 

It was so unfair.

“Who died, Potter?”

Harry started at the familiar shout and pulled his broom around sharply to face the Hufflepuff stands. Trotting out towards the pitch in front of the black and yellow and banners was Draco Malfoy. The ice blond Slytherin was dressed in plain, almost dull, black robes that whispered over the top of the painstakingly maintained grass as he approached. Harry’s eyes narrowed behind his thick glasses as he lowered himself down to earth. The battered tips of his worn out shoes grazed the ground. Malfoy stopped a good thirty feet away and watched the other boy with thinly veiled wariness. Harry settled back on his broom, stretching out his legs. 

Malfoy broke eye contact first. His silvery grey eyes watched Harry’s feet swing just above the green. “We need to talk.”

A muscle tensed in Harry’s jaw as he readjusted his grip on the Firebolt. “Really? Well, that’s going to be rather difficult because I have nothing to say to you and it takes two to have a conversation.” He pushed up off the ground with his toes, ready to head back to the locker room. The pitch suddenly seemed too small. Or maybe he somehow felt too large.

Malfoy made a strange noise in his throat. “Then just listen.”

Harry closed his eyes as he moved upwards. No, it was the company that was all wrong, not him or the pitch.

“Harry!”

The Gryffindor paused, struck painfully by something in the other boy’s voice. Maybe it was the plea he thought he heard there. But that couldn’t be right—a Malfoy never pleaded for anything. Despite himself, the brunet turned to frown back at his classmate.

Sensing an opening, Draco quickly strode across the space between, trying desperately to organize his thoughts. He took a deep breath and was hard pressed to suppress a scowl when he realized he’d be forced to look up at Potter for this conversation. “Just listen to me, okay?”

Potter tilted his head to the side quizzically. “Why? And shouldn’t you be at Hogsmead with the rest of your entourage?”

The blond forced himself to maintain eye contact with the brunet. “I don’t seem to have one anymore. How’s yours?”

“I never had one,” Harry growled in response. “I have _friends_. You should try it some time.”

Draco pressed his lips into a pained line. “Show me.”

The broom dipped in midair. “What?”

“Show me,” the Slytherin repeated.

Harry pulled up on the broom a bit as he stared down at Malfoy. “What are you playing at, Malfoy?”

“I need your help,” the blond responded levelly. “I’m offering you an alliance, Potter. You’d be wise to accept it.”

“And why should I trust you?” The smaller Seeker lowered his broom to the ground until he was just a little bit above Draco’s eye level. “When have you ever given me a reason to trust you, Malfoy? And when have I ever given you a reason to trust me?”

“The political climate has changed.” He pursed his lips again in frustration and seized hold of the broom so Potter couldn’t just fly off when it suited him. The other boy balked, looking affronted, but Draco overran him before he could protest. “My father is mad, Potter. And my mother is not equipped to lead the family.” His grip on the broom tightened in an effort to keep the tremor out of his voice. “I am not asking for your friendship. I’m not even asking for your trust me.” His knuckles were white and his voice dropped to a strained whisper. “But I am asking you to _help_ me.”

Potter settled back on his broom, biting his lower lip, Avada Kedavra green eyes dark with consideration. 

Draco swallowed heavily. “I will not watch idly as my family is swallowed by the Dark Lord.”

Harry’s broom rose a bit and the blond pulled it back down, still maintaining eye contact. The Gryffindor pulled up again. “His _name_ is _Voldemort_.”

The Malfoy heir opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. For a moment Harry stared at him with burning emerald eyes and jerked the broom handle out of his hand. The blond tried again, but he simply _could not_ bring himself to say the name.

Harry stared down at the boy and was suddenly struck by the helplessness he saw in those gray eyes. Anger, frustration, and . . . helplessness. Perhaps he would have been more sympathetic in September, but September was long past and now all he could think was the Malfoy had worn the exact same expression when he’d burst into the Lab that night.

When he’d ruined everything.

Everything.

The eternal ball of anger, so carefully coiled and bound in his stomach, lurched and writhed. Anger. And blame. Because it really was _Malfoy’s_ fault. MALFOY. Severus was listening to him before that. Severus was holding him. Touching him. Begging him to listen to so-called reason, but those hands were on him, sliding and touching and _promising_ and Malfoy had ruined it all.

Everything.

He pulled up sharply and glared down at this hate-filled little rodent who poisoned everything he touched—everything—and it took all his control not to hex him to bits. The whole damn Malfoy clan could tumble into the ocean for all he cared. Then at least, he’d be free of them. 

Control and memory. Memory and control.

And he _would not_ lose his temper. Not for a Malfoy.

The look on his face must have been fearsome because Malfoy recoiled as though he’d been bitten. Harry sneered in contempt at the act and rose so that he was staring down his nose at the blond. 

“I need your help!” the Slytherin cried with obvious anguish.

Harry could feel nothing for the boy’s plight. “You want my help, Malfoy? Then take my advice.” He pulled up to head back to the locker room, pausing only to glance at the boy he left behind. “Go to hell!”

He turned back and lay flat against the broom, desperate to put distance between himself and Malfoy, and told himself that he was not running away. If Malfoy said anything, he didn’t hear him. He didn’t want to. 

He didn’t want to think of Malfoy. He didn’t want to think of Severus. He didn’t want to think of Sirius. He didn’t want to think at all. He just wanted . . . He wanted . . . to be safe. Just for a little while. Just for a moment.

. . . Which was probably why, an hour and a shower later, he found himself with one hand poised to knock on a heavy maple door and shifting nervously from foot to foot.

“Come in, child.”

Harry hesitated an instant—how did the man do that?—before cautiously opening the door. He shyly stuck his head around the corner and peered in. “Sir?” His glasses caught the glare of the fire, temporarily blinding him. He shuffled into the office and closed the door behind him. “Sir?”

Albus looked up from the paperwork spread before him, concern shining in his eyes. He put down his quill and beckoned the boy into the office. “Is everything alright, my dear boy? Do you need something? Has Professor Snape done anything?”

For once being called ‘boy’ did not irritate Harry. Instead it made him feel . . . calmer. He came into the room slowly, looking a bit sheepish. He looked away from the Headmaster’s eyes and to the fire. “You, um . . .” He cleared his throat and hated himself for sounding so stupid. “You said that your door was always open. Even if I just needed a place to be . . .” He trailed off and suddenly wished he hadn’t come here at all.

Albus smiled at the boy’s awkwardness. “Harry . . . You are always welcome here.” He made to push his work aside. “Did you want to talk or—”

“No, no!” the boy interrupted with a blush and shake of his head. “I just . . . May I just sit by the fire and read?”

Albus beamed. “Have you a book?”

Harry blushed again, spreading his empty hands in embarrassment, and shook his head. “Um . . . Should—”

The Headmaster waved his wand and a book appeared on his desk with an odd suction noise. It was leather-bound, heavy and black with golden letters embossed on the cover that read _‘Wizarding Tales for Every Child.’_ Harry shot him a quizzical look at the title.

“It’s one of my favorites,” the old man explained, still looking absolutely thrilled with Harry’s presence.

The teen accepted the enormous book with a crooked smile and retreated to the chair he usually sat in for tea. He opened the book to the first story, “The Midwife and the Scarab,” and curled up in the heavy seat, occasionally peaking over the top of the pages at the Headmaster as the old man shuffled his papers about. The fourth or fifth time he’d done this, he found himself looking into a shining pair of sapphire eyes. They stared at one another for a moment before Harry shifted in his seat.

“Was he terribly cross with me?” he asked after a minute.

The Headmaster knew it was pointless to feign ignorance and his smile became a bit sadder. “No. Not at you. Himself maybe. And me. But not at you.”

Harry nodded and turned back to the book. A slight wrinkle appeared in his brow. “This doesn’t mean that we’re square, you know. I haven’t forgiven you yet.”

Although Harry couldn’t see it, Albus smiled again. “I know, child.” _But it’s a start._

They said nothing else to one another for the remainder of the afternoon and the only sounds to be heard in the office was the rustle of paper and the absent, even scratching of a quill.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


Voldemort sat on the dais and frowned slightly at the women in front of him. Bellatrix was seated his feet in Nagini’s usual post, enraptured by a game of Cat’s Cradle as she hummed brokenly to herself. Kneeling gracefully in the audience area was Narcissa Malfoy. Her regal carriage irritated him to no end. It made the Dark Lord even more acutely aware of his own shabby surroundings: a rotted, empty ballroom with a busted easy chair as a throne and a humming madwoman as his court and concubine.

He sneered, but the expression was directed at himself. And now this worthless nothing of a woman dared to come into his presence unmasked? Regardless of whether or not she was a Death Eater, she should have known better. To love something is to truly fear it. This women did not fear him. He would remember that and kill her when the time came. Slowly. A fitting task for his ambitious Dragon, perhaps. Nothing cemented the Dark Mark like the selfish spilling of blood. Even that treacherous Severus had been initiated with blood.

The reminder of Severus’s betrayal made the reptilian man taste bile. He felt flush with a sudden and intense hatred for everyone and everything. It took more control than he liked to admit not summon Severus here and kill him just as a simple means of catharsis.

_Soon . . ._

Yes. Soon. Soon Potter would either be bound or he would be dead. Soon Severus would be brought to heel. Soon everything would be his— _his_ —as it could have been before. As it should have been before. Oh, he’d spout the pureblood rhetoric for as long as necessary, but he knew better than anyone that when it came down to the wire, it was he—poor, despised, filthy Tom Riddle the half-blood orphan—who would rule this world. This world and all others. _Soon._

But for now, he would have to be patient.

Even though he wanted nothing more than to reach out and squeeze this frigid blue-blooded bitch’s neck until her eyes bulged and her tongue protruded and her flesh popped beneath his fingers like rotten fruit and blood stained those perfect, pristine sapphire robes and she died knowing that _he was her Master_ . . .

Voldemort closed his red eyes and sighed, ignoring the slight tremor in his hands as he did so.

Soon.

He opened his eyes. Soon he would make this queenly woman a Death Eater whore and violate her in every way conceivable until she went mad from begging both for mercy and for more. 

But not today.

He tilted his hairless head to the side and allowed a hint of displeasure to show. “He is . . . illllllll?” He drew the last word out in a sibilant hiss and was pleased to see a minuscule shiver run through the Lady Malfoy.

She dipped her head and the weak, indelicate torch light shone brightly off of the jeweled hair piece that held back her magnificent locks. “Yes, My Lord. I am afraid that my husband has taken ill once more and will not be able to attend you for several weeks.”

He sneered at her perfectly brushed hair and absently reached out his free hand to pet Bellatrix. Narcissa’s eyes locked on the other woman at his feet and her expressionless face cracked for a moment in contempt. Voldemort tightened his grip on Bellatrix’s hair in anger. 

How dare this weak, willful girl look with distain on what was his! Bellatrix looked up at him, adoring madness flashing in her velvety eyes. 

“Patterns, Master,” she cooed sweetly, holding up her string to show him what she’d made. She giggled, a curiously shattered sound. “So much to see . . . I see the itty-bitty Potter. I see a treacherous black snake. I see the prey falling. I see the pretty painted woman—” here her midnight blue eyes flashed to Narcissa, alight with pure, unadulterated hatred, and her saccharine voice changing to rough, animalistic snarl, “— _burning_!”

Voldemort watched his servant—his poor, mad, faithful Bellatrix—with expressionless eyes. All he could see in the weave she’d made was the start of a great knot. 

He looked back at Narcissa—Bellatrix could be punished for speaking out of turn once Malfoy’s woman had left. “I ssssee,” he hissed quietly to the other witch. He seemed to think for a moment before shaking his head. “You, I assssume, have taken on the duties as the Head of Houssse?”

She dipped her head again in acknowledgement. “Yes, my Lord.”

The Dark Lord’s eyes narrowed. This was not acceptable. “Then you sshall take over _all_ of his duties as the Head of Housssse.” He shifted and Bellatrix jerked violently at the Cat’s Cradle she was trying to weave, whispering to herself and rocking back and forth ever so slightly.

Voldemort hissed irritably at her before turning back to the Malfoy matriarch. “You are to tell Draco that the Mirror is set to arrive at Hogwartssss thiss week by way of the Ssssslytherin dungeons. He is not to interfere. There are otherss in Hogwartssss who can do my bidding far better than the Malfoy family hass been doing of late.” He paused and looked at her in consideration. “Should I suspect that there was any interferenccce . . .” he drew the ‘c’ out slowly, “I would be most disappointed, Lady Narcccissa.” The title made his stomach roil and he looked away in disgust. “I will summon you when I have need of you.”

Narcissa seemed to pale a bit at these words and looked up sharply in protest. “My Lord—” The words died on her lips as he slowly turned back to face her again. She swallowed visibly, the shallow arc of her throat sliding back and forth with the motion.

Voldemort leaned forward as though taking a closer look at her. His pupils seemed to flare open and he inhaled deeply, as though he could smell her. She shuddered, a delicate motion that made her dress whisper. 

“You are a very beautiful woman, Lady Malfoy,” the wizard murmured after a moment. His hand buried itself in Bellatrix’s tangled ebony hair again. “But true beauty can only be appreciated in its destruction, wouldn’t you concur? Does not even the loveliest rosse in its prime ssseem all the more beautiful when compared to its inevitable decay?”

She stared up at him, cold and pale and expressionless, and he smiled. Soon. He dismissed her with a wave of his hand and watched as she executed a perfect curtsey and slowly backed out of his presence. Bellatrix giggled psychotically and pulled the strings wrapped between her fingers taut again; forming a pattern only she could see. Narcissa glided regally to the door.

Voldemort raised his wand when her marble hand touched the tarnished door handle. “Oh . . . And Lady Narcissa?”

She turned slowly and even from the distance between them he could see the steel in her gaze. Her perfect flowerbud lips parted and Voldemort pointed his wand at her with a smile. “ _Crucio_.”

Her screams sounded like the rush of blood in his veins. 

At his feet, Bellatrix continued humming and playing her game, unaware of anything but the knot she had created.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


Severus sat at his desk in the midst of his devastated quarters and stared blankly down at the scroll in his hand. He had read the letter several times, but the words didn’t seem to sink in. It was not as though this was unexpected . . . he simply hadn’t expected it _now_ of all times . . .

But perhaps it was for the best. It would give him time, at least. Time away from the boy’s hurt-filled green eyes. Time away from Albus’s disappointment. Time away from Draco and Lucius’s impossible demands . . . Time.

_November 1st, 1996  
Severus,  
I will not mince words. You are, always have been, and always will be a failure. If you hadn’t ruined your wretched mother’s womb, I would have drowned you an hour after your birth. You should consider it your supreme triumph that you will outlive me—your only victory in this life is that you are the only heir I have produced, despite my efforts to the contrary.  
However, there is nothing that can be done for the situation now. It has come to my attention that I am dying. If you are so inclined, returned to Snape Manor on Tuesday November 5th, 1996 at exactly 12:30 to discuss your inheritance. The wards barring your return will be lifted at that time and at that time only. If you are late or do not attend, then you will be disinherited. Do try to make time in your busy schedule, lest I be forced set the wards to burn the Manor to the ground upon my death.  
~ Aigris Désunis Snape _

He rolled the scroll closed and pressed the ends shut so that the shattered Snape family seal looked whole again. The fifth . . . That was in three days. Albus had given Severus three more days before he had to face Potter again and Tuesday was the Headmaster’s weekly tea session with the boy . . . And he hadn’t seen his ancestral home in over 20 years now . . .

Yes. Perhaps some time away was just the thing. Even if it was only to Snape Manor. His hands clenched around the scroll. What was that Muggle saying again? _Out of the frying pan and into the fire._

So be it then.

Severus pushed himself to his feet and staggered slightly to his shower once more. His wand still had not reappeared. He turned the spray all the way to hot and stepped in the shower fully clothed, still holding the scroll. It was actually rather interesting to watch the water bounce off the Impervious Charm on the parchment.

_“I didn’t ask to survive, you know.”_

What had he been thinking?

What . . .

_Dear Professor Snape,  
I miss you.  
H.P._

Severus closed his eyes and leaned forward to press his forehead against the tiles and closed his eyes wearily. 

Yes. 

It was long past time for him to return home.

  
**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**  



	8. Six I: The Body Swayed to Music

**_  
Where the Heart Moves the Stone_**  
~ Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc ~  
\- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
10.7.2003

**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**~ Chapter Six I ~  
The Body Swayed to Music**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

“Behold, ye trust in lying words, that cannot profit.  
Will ye steal, murder, and commit adultery, and swear falsely, and burn incense unto Ba`al,  
and walk after other gods whom ye know not;  
And come and stand before me in this house, which is called by my name, and say,  
We are delivered to do all these abominations?  
Is this house, which is called by my name, become a den of robbers in your eyes?  
Behold, even I have seen it, saith the LORD.  
But go ye now unto my place which was in Shiloh, where I set my name at the first,  
and see what I did to it for the wickedness of my people Israel.  
And now, because ye have done all these works, saith the LORD, and I spake unto you, rising up early and speaking,  
but ye heard not; and I called you, but ye answered not;  
Therefore will I do unto this house, which is called by my name, wherein ye trust,  
and unto the place which I gave to you and to your fathers, as I have done to Shiloh.  
And I will cast you out of my sight, as I have cast out all your brethren, even the whole seed of Ephraim.  
Therefore pray not thou for this people, neither lift up cry nor prayer for them, neither make intercession to me:  
for I will not hear thee.”  
\- Jeremiah 7: 8-17

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**

_“W_ ill you talk to me now, Harry?”

The boy looked up at the old man, a shuttered expression on his face. After a moment, his eyes darted away again and he laid his head down on his arms on the edge of the Headmaster’s desk. “Why is this so important to you?”

“Because _you_ are important to me. Allow me to help you.”

A muscle in the Gryffindor’s jaw twitched, but he remained silent.

It was Tuesday. While October had gone out with bang, it seemed that November was determined to start with a whimper and, though Harry was no longer hiding in his bed, he still was not quite ready to join the rest of Hogwarts. This was partially because, despite the fact that the boy had been searching for him ever since Sunday, there had been no sign of Snape. Last night he’d even crept down to the dungeons—still without his invisibility cloak—but he stopped at the top landing and simply stared down the dark hallway. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was scared. He was scared that Snape never wanted to see him again. He was afraid . . . that maybe it wasn’t Malfoy. Maybe Snape really _did_ hate him. So Harry had gone back to Gryffindor Tower with a suspicious lump in his throat and curled up in bed with Snape’s cloak.

This wasn’t healthy. He knew that this couldn’t possibly be healthy just as well as he knew that there was no possible way he could still smell Snape on the man’s cloak after two years. But it didn’t change the fact that he felt awfully empty without his Professor and—to him at least—the cloak still smelled like blood and tea and roses and the thousand other things that were pure Snape.

This wasn’t just a crush anymore; it had hit full blown obsession and Harry was scared and had no one to talk to. Ron and Hermione would freak. Dumbledore would be forced to sack Snape before he even got a full sentence out of his mouth. Remus might very well eat the man next moon or something. And Harry had no one else he could talk to—no one else he could trust. The thought was disheartening and the boy went from simply being quiet and studious to being depressed. What was worse, though, was that everyone just seemed to just let him go. They knew something was wrong—they _had_ to see that something was wrong. 

So why then didn’t anyone want to help him?

He buried himself deeper into his arms and listened to the fire crackle. His head ached horribly. He hated Occlumency. It made him feel as though someone was hammering a knife through his scar. Slowly. And from the inside. The fire popped again and he flinched at the sound. It hurt. Dumbledore would probably end this session soon, though. At least Harry hoped so. He couldn’t take much more of this tonight.

Albus sighed at his student’s lack of response and sat down in his chair. “Your shields have gotten a good deal better than they were before.”

“Voldemort hasn’t tried anything since the end of last year. It doesn’t really mean anything if I can’t keep him out, does it?” He shifted unconsciously so that his scar was hidden. “And we won’t know until he tries something.”

“True,” the old man concurred as he stroked his beard idly, “but you have shown tremendous progress.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. “Can we stop for tonight?”

“The lessons still cause you pain?” Harry barely repressed a flinch when he felt a gnarled hand rest on his hair. “Even though you’ve been practicing and clearing your mind?”

The boy nodded without changing his position. “It feels like . . . like something’s being scrambled about in my head and then trying to push out of my scar.”

The hand on his head moved slightly, gently brushing back his hair, and Harry felt his headache begin to recede under the light touches. “Pushing out, or pushing in?”

“Out.”

The Headmaster withdrew his hand after a moment and Harry sat up, blinking his eyes against the sudden brightness of the fire and candle light. A tin of lemon drops was held out and he took one without thinking. “Do you think it’s Voldemort, sir?”

“No . . .” the Headmaster eyed him in consideration as Harry sucked on the candy. “Harry, what was the first involuntary magic you did?”

The boy swallowed the treat and his brow wrinkled in consideration. “Um . . . I once grew my hair out again after my aunt gave me a bad haircut. And I also once apparated to the top of my elementary school when my cousin was chasing me.”

Dumbledore’s lips thinned at the mention of such treatment, but he said nothing about it. Instead he asked, “Did you ever have odd dreams as a child, Harry?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed and his frown deepened. “Dreams are just dreams, sir. Aren’t they all odd?”

Blue eyes twinkled. “Sometimes. But sometimes they mean more.” Harry opened his mouth, but Dumbledore waved the question away and sat up a bit straighter in his chair. “You should not still be getting headaches by this stage of your training though, child. When you first started, that was to be expected—your mind was being forced to do something new, something that it was not designed to do,” he explained as the boy took another lemon drop. “Now, however, you should have become more acquainted with shielding. You have built and developed natural shields. The defenses that you have now, though good, are only your mind’s reaction to the intrusion of another. A natural defense mechanism. Your shields are totally instinctive. What we need to do now is work on developing conscious, controllable shields. This pain that you seem to be experiencing is preventing you from doing that.”

The teen jerked off his glasses with an angry motion and slumped in his seat, allowing his head to thump against the wood carvings along the top of the back. He made a hissing noise in frustration and scrubbed his face with his hands. “But I’m _practicing_ ; I promise I am! I clear my mind before bed every night. I study _every day_ . . . I’m doing my very best.”

“I know you are,” the Headmaster assured him in a warm voice, a slightly pained expression on his face at his protégé’s distress. “I know. What I’m trying to say is that this block that you have may not be your fault. This could very well be something out of both of our control.”

Harry blinked blearily at the man. “What do you mean?” He put his glasses back on and his gaze hardened. “Or is this one of those things you won’t tell me?”

Dumbledore pursed his lips again and was silent for a moment. The he settled tiredly back in his chair and reached out to stroke Fawkes. He watched the phoenix stretch on his perch as he spoke. “Honestly, I am not certain, but I am beginning to suspect that your own magical skills may be blocking your abilities to shield, Harry. You will be a very powerful wizard when you grow older and it is not unusual for particularly powerful wizard to have their abilities manifest in various forms, particularly if their magical inclination was somehow stifled when they were young. All that power has to go somewhere, after all. This may not be something that either I or Professor Snape can teach you to get around.”

Harry watched the old man in silence for a moment, absorbing what he’d just heard. “Do you have a . . . another form, sir?”

The hand petting Fawkes stopped and the man seemed to wilt a bit. When he turned to look back at his charge, his eyes were devoid of any twinkle. He folded his hands in front of him thoughtfully. 

Harry watched curiously as the man seemed to gather himself. 

“You were right,” the Headmaster began with a heavy sigh, “when you said that I do not tell you things. But I meant what I said before: I want to protect you, Harry. Sometimes, though, I also wish to protect myself.” He sighed once more, a heavy, pained sound. “I am trusting you with something, my boy, and you must understand that what I say now cannot leave this office. You cannot even tell Ron and Hermione. Do you promise me?”

The boy looked slightly surprised at the statement. He blinked and then frowned. “Maybe . . . maybe you shouldn’t tell me, then . . . If Voldemort—”

“Tom knows,” Dumbledore said sadly.

Harry blinked for a moment, taken off guard by the gentle interruption. Then he looked into his mentor’s eyes. “I promise, then.”

Albus nodded and settled back in his chair. “I am an empath, Harry. Do you know what that means?” When the boy shook his head ‘no,’ the man smiled slightly at the obvious curiosity shining in his student’s eyes. “An empath is a person who can sense other people’s emotions. They can also influence them to a certain extent. Most empaths, however, have very, very strong shields, else we would not even be able to function with all the emotions of flying about all the time. I can only influence someone’s emotions when I’m in physical contact with them, and even then only to a limited extent and for very short time period.”

Harry recoiled. “When you touched me just now, did you—”

The light in Albus’s eyes further dimmed. “No. No, I did not, Harry. And I have never used my abilities on you. Ever. Not even when you were a child. However useful they might be to me, I am loathe to use my abilities on others and have been for several years. Ever since Tom graduated from Hogwarts, actually.” 

The Gryffindor frowned slightly, obviously not understanding what the one had to do with the other.

Albus steepled his fingers in front of him, elbows resting on the arm rests of his chair and a distant look clouding his normally clear eyes. “The day Tom Riddle graduated, he came to see me. He wanted to know why I had given him low marks in Transfiguration. He was angry, in a rage such as I had never seen before. Tom was always so terribly calm, so cool and collected all the time . . . it was alarming. I was concerned. I knew that there had to be more affecting him than his grade and Tom and I had never really gotten along. Tom had a . . . cruel streak in him that I did not like—a malice that I could feel no matter how strong my shields—and he knew that I was aware of his darker nature. But he came to me that day and I thought . . . I was arrogant enough to think that I could help him. So I reached out and grabbed his arm to get a clear read on him.” 

His eyes closed in remembered pain. “There was so much rage . . . so much _hate_ inside him . . . I thought that it would tear us both in two. His mind was a maelstrom. I didn’t understand how anyone could live like that. I reached into his mind and _twisted_ , trying to drain some of that hate away. I thought that there would be some other emotion to fill the void. I only wanted to afford him a moment’s peace, truly. But there was nothing. When I drained away his anger and hate, it created a void in his mind. He lashed out at me. The blast destroyed the entire north wall of the Transfiguration classroom and landed me in the Hospital Wing for four days.” 

He stopped, seemingly lost in thought. Age and guilt bent his shoulders and it seemed for a strange moment as thought the man was going to simply crumble in on himself. Then he sighed again and opened his eyes. “The next time I saw Tom Riddle was ten years later as he stood outside a muggle-born’s burning house, firing the Dark Mark into the sky.” He turned to stare hard at Harry. “When I first saw you sitting in the Great Hall five years ago, it seemed as though I’d stepped back in time. I did not see James Potter when I looked at you, Harry. I saw Tom Riddle. And I saw the same pain bowing your shoulders that had bowed his. But there was so much light inside you, too . . .”

He leaned forward and smiled at Harry sadly. “I suppose I saw in you my second chance. But I also saw how deeply unhappy I had made the child of James and Lily Potter, two vibrant people whom I loved dearly. I vowed then that, though I didn’t dare remove you from your Aunt’s protection, I would at least do everything I could to make your time at Hogwarts enjoyable. Part of that was also respecting your privacy as much as possible. I believe I have imposed quite enough on your life with intruding on your mind unnecessarily. I only wanted to make sure that you were safe and happy. If I had known then what I know now, perhaps I would have done things quite differently, but I cannot change what has been done. And for that I am truly sorry, my dear boy.” His eyes closed. “Truly.”

Harry closed his own eyes and could feel his nails digging uncomfortably into his palms. He looked down at his fists blankly. He forced his fingers open. “And Voldemort?”

The Headmaster looked confused at the question and Harry looked directly into his eyes. “What’s his ‘manifestation?’” 

“He is a natural Legilimens. As is Severus.”

At the mention of Severus’s name, Harry squirmed uncomfortably and he found himself looking away to the fire again. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You asked,” Dumbledore replied with surprising simplicity.

The boy found himself looking back at the man, somewhat startled. He hesitated for an instant, tongue pressed lightly on the edge of his two upper front teeth as though holding back whatever he was going to say. Then he smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

The elderly man offered a tremulous smile of his own. “Harry, I really don’t want you to think—”

“I don’t!” he interrupted. “Really . . .” He squirmed again. “I don’t think you’d . . . I mean, you wouldn’t have told me that if you did, would you? Because, then I’d always be wondering if you were mucking about in my head all the time.”

“And you won’t wonder now?” he asked, his blue eyes seeming to pierce Harry.

Harry pursed his lips slightly. “I don’t know,” he said honestly after a moment. He looked down and was slightly surprised to see that he was wringing his hands. He watched the fingers of his right hand worry the knuckles of his left hand. “I . . .” Green eyes rose again to meet the Headmaster’s blue ones. “I don’t like some of the things you do. I don’t know if I can trust you . . . But I’ll trust you with this. Even if I didn’t, it wouldn’t change anything.”

Albus settled back in his seat and looked tired. “An honest answer,” he observed in a strangely pensive tone. “Thank you, Harry.” He steepled his hands again. “I would like you to resume your lessons with Severus.”

An expression like pain twitched over Harry’s face. “Severus hates me,” he whispered lowly.

Albus shook his head. “ _Professor Snape_ hates himself sometimes. You, however . . . I don’t think he really can hate you, and that upsets him.”

Far from being comforted, Harry hunched over in his seat. “I don’t want to upset him. And I don’t want to hurt him anymore. I don’t want to see him.”

“He’s your professor,” Dumbledore explained in a gentle voice. “And if you don’t want to see him anymore, I think that would hurt him even worse.”

Harry looked up, his eyes dark. “Will you force me to do it?”

The headmaster tugged at his beard thoughtfully as he looked at his protégé. “No,” he replied after a moment. “But I want you to consider it. I would like you to continue your shielding practices, but I want to take a week off your lessons while we try to figure out what could be blocking you. If it is alright for you, I’d like to invite an old friend here next Tuesday to see you. She has some rather versatile skills that may help point us in the right direction. Then, if you still do not wish to see Professor Snape, we will work something else out. Depending on what we find, you may not be able to move any farther in your Occlumency. In which case, we will simply have to look for other alternatives. Is that alright with you, child?”

Harry shrugged moodily and turned back to the fire. A gentle touch on his hand startled him and his head snapped back ‘round.

“I want you to know, though,” the Professor said in a quiet voice, “if you have the time, I still would like to see every Tuesday.” He smiled once more. “I have found that my week seems quite empty without our tea.”

Harry turned his hand so that he could grip those gnarled fingers tightly. “I would like that,” he said, trying to send every bit of sincerity that he could through the touch.

Albus squeezed his fingers back and sat up a bit straighter. Fawkes trilled happily. 

Harry pulled back in his chair, feeling both pleased and strangely awkward. “May I stay here a bit longer? I don’t really feel like eating in the Hall tonight . . .”

The Headmaster smiled, one of his usual blinding grins that never failed to make their recipient feel better. “I’ll call Dobby. Your book is in your chair by the fire.”

The brunet paused in the act of getting up and shot Dumbledore a suspicious look. “Did you know I’d want to stay here, sir?”

Blue eyes danced in response as the old man removed a fresh tin of lemon drops from one of his numerous drawers and popped two into his mouth. “Hope springs eternal in the human breast, my boy.” He held out the tin. “Lemon drop?”

And Harry was surprised to hear himself laugh softly.

****

  


*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


The trees of the Forbidden Forest rustled faintly, but there was no wind. The girl shuddered in fear and crouched down at the edge of the wards that surrounded the school, feeling for the slight tingle of magic that would tell her exactly where the wards ended. She sighed when she found it, more relieved than she had thought possible, and reached into her robe for the small golden ball he’d given her.

 _”Only someone with a pure purpose can pierce the wards of Hogwarts,”_ he’d told her. _“That’s why He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named cannot breach them, no matter how strong his magic.”_

_“But how do you know it will work? What if my purpose isn’t pure enough?”_

He had laughed at her when she’d said that. _“Your purpose is true love, isn’t it? Don’t you love him? Don’t you want to save him from Snape? Then you have nothing to worry about. If you really love him—truly love him and want to save him—the wards will accept this Ostium Sphere without any problem.”_

_“And this will help him?”_

_“Of course it will. You’ve seen what’s happening . . . Snape on one side . . . Malfoy cozying up to him on the other. The way things are going, he’ll be taking the Dark Mark before the end of the term. And believe me, **I** am in a position to know a Death Eater when I see one.”_

_“But last week—”_

_“Was an act. Trust me; my friends will come and talk some sense into him—show him how evil You-Know-Who is and remind him how much depends on him. He’ll thank you for it. I swear it.”_

With a heavy sigh, she stared down at the Ostium Sphere. While she wasn’t sure exactly how it would work, she knew that it would create a small hole in the wards. No one would even notice it unless they were standing right on top of it. Not even the Headmaster would know.

Punching a hole in the Wards . . . She didn’t like the idea. She could be expelled if she was discovered. . . . But it would only bring his friends in, right? And then they’d help Harry. They would. 

Because she couldn’t. 

She had tried, but she just couldn’t. He was never in the dorms, never in the Common Room, never near _her_ , and Ron and Hermione didn’t even know who she was. Part of her wanted to tell them—after all, they were supposed to be Harry’s best friends, right?—but they never had time for her and every single time she tried to talk to them, her tongue seemed to get all knotted in itself and her stomach fluttered. No one even saw her. 

It also didn’t help that the Trio never really talked to anyone but each other. They weren’t rude or anything, they just didn’t really seem to have any other real friends outside of one another. And the rest of the Sixth Years were too absorbed in Sixth Year things to pay any mind to her . . .

So she would do this on her own. Her brothers and her parents didn’t think she was cut out for Gryffindor—didn’t think she was brave enough, or bold enough, or _Lion_ enough for Gryffindor.

 _“I thought for sure she’d be a Hufflepuff,”_ she had heard her brother whisper to another Fifth Year once. 

Well, she’d show them. She’d show them all and prove that _she_ was worthy of Harry Potter and the Trio, to boot.

Determined to follow through with the plan, the girl set the sphere on the ground and nudged it into the path of the wards. It pulsed once very brightly the moment it made contact with the wards, but then turned milky white before vanishing from sight. The Gryffindor exhaled, her task complete, and settled back on her heels in relief.

“Thank _Merlin_ . . .”

A shadow suddenly fell over her and she twisted around with a startled shriek.

Strong hands caught her before she could really lose her balance, and soft laughter came from above her. She blinked against the bright shining in her eyes and frowned up at him, barely able to contain her relief. “You!”

He pulled her upright and looked back at where she had been kneeling. “It’s done?”

She brushed her robes off and stared up at the Seventh Year with a frown. “Yes, I—W—what are you doing here?” Her small hands hovered anxiously over her skirt and the wind blew, sending her long black hair into her eyes.

The boy nodded, still looking at the space she’d just vacated. “When I didn’t see you at dinner, I wanted to be sure you had no difficulties. Where is it?” He pushed a hand through his thick, sandy hair, pulling it out of his jade-colored eyes. 

The girl walked past him and stretched out her right hand, feeling the warm swell of the wards until she found the cold space where the hole was. She waved her hand through the space, trying to feel out its perimeter. “Here,” she said softly, indicating the area with a wave of her hand.

There was a sudden rending noise and she whirled around, hand still suspended in space, to see her companion ripping the Slytherin badge off his robes. She gaped as he knelt next to her to place the torn off patch on the ground. 

He carefully nudged the badge to the very edge of the hole. “Tear off your badge and put it in. We need to mark the entrance.” 

Her hands fluttered up to her badge without thinking and she found herself tugging at the material. The Gryffindor patch came off with surprising ease, red thread snapping in protest. She handed it to him in silence. Her robes seemed strangely lighter without it.

“You should go back,” the older boy said as he placed her badge on the other end of the invisible hole. “There’ll be questions if we’re seen together.”

She hesitated, feeling rather useless now that her part was done. “You know . . .” Her robes swayed around her as she took a tentative step towards him. “I’m going to have my eye color changed over Christmas hols . . . Black. Do you think it would suit me?”

The Slytherin looked up at her, his green eyes shining curiously bright. “You know . . . I really think you’re quite pretty the way you are.”

She blushed a deep dusty rose color and looked at the ground, wistfully wishing that _he_ was Harry.

****

  


*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


Harry sat bolt upright, glasses askew, when Ron dropped a heavy tome next to his head. He blinked owlishly in the bright overhead lights of the Library and stared up at his two best friends.

Hermione pursed her lip and looked down at the Gryffindor Seeker, her hazel eyes hard with determination. She waved her wand to cast a silencing charm and sighed quietly. “We need to talk, Harry.”

Harry shifted in his seat uneasily as his friends sat down uninvited. The three of them were ensconced in a study carol at the very back of the Library, as far from Madam Pince’s prying eyes and dismissive sniffs as possible. Not too many of the other students came back here anymore. Not only was it far from the stacks, it had also become unofficially known as Harry’s private little corner, and—as he was apparently rather high on Snape’s proverbial radar—Harry had quickly become _persona non gratis_ outside of Gryffindor house. It actually made the study cubby the perfect place to have this type of discussion: private, and with all the exits covered. No one could approach without them knowing it, but Harry also couldn’t leave without pushing past his two best friends. And they didn’t exactly seem to be in the mood to let him slide this evening. 

Unable to meet their eyes, Harry found himself staring down at the book he’d been reading before he drifted off. A woodcut image of a banshee stared back at him, black and white eyes glaring up through a long tangle of wild hair. He shut the book quickly and wondered how long she’d been staring at him while he slept.

Ron took the book away from him, picking it up and flipping it over to read the title. Bold black scroll print identified the brown leather-bound volume as _False Parables: The Real Dark Arts_ by Sliverene Haagg, and Ron looked at his friend with unabashed concern.

“Dark Arts, mate?”

“No . . .” Harry’s voice was soft, but honest. “Dumbledore won’t let me learn them. I asked already.”

Hermione made a disapproving noise in her throat and Harry’s gaze hardened. “What else do you expect me to do? Do you really think that Expelliarmus will be enough against Lord Voldemort? Because it won’t be—believe, me, I’ve tried it.”

The girl’s disapproval faded a bit, but didn’t vanish. “Still . . .”

Harry scowled, irritated with her despite himself. “Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“No.” Ron pushed the book aside and leaned forward so that Harry’s attention was drawn away from his girlfriend. He pressed his lips together in a hard, disapproving line and said one curt, self-explanatory word: “Snape.”

All the blood drained from Harry’s face and his eyes widened before he could control his reaction. He looked away quickly. “S—Snape? What about him?” As he turned away from Ron, he found himself face to face with Hermione. He couldn’t avoid one’s eyes without looking at the other’s, so he twitched back and forth for an indecisive moment before simply looking down at the table. “What about him?” he repeated to the time blackened, polished wood. Hidden under the table, he began to wring his hands in his lap.

Hermione sat back and brushed her hair out of her eyes. “We’re worried about you, Harry. You’re like a ghost these days. We . . . We only want to help you. We’ve been talking—” Harry’s eyes darted up to see Ron nod and then he immediately looked away again “—and we know Snape is involved somehow.”

The brunet between them pulled back farther into his seat and placed his hands on the table. He stared at his raw, reddened knuckles with a faintly nauseous look on his face. “He—I . . .” He swallowed thickly and looked up, a strained smile on his face, and gave an odd little laugh. “He hates me. You know that. Everyone knows that.” He swallowed again and wondered why he felt a burning sensation in the back of his throat. 

Ron snorted and crossed his arms as he settled back in his seat. He scowled darkly at the smaller boy across from him. “Shut it, Harry. You’re lying. Badly. You were a right mess last week and we want to know why. We’ve given you space, but enough is enough, mate. Normally you’d storm and rant or have a good row with Snape, but now you’re acting like—like—like a—”

“Like he broke your heart,” Hermione finished quietly.

Harry’s hands clenched into fists, his nails scraping the table top with the motion.

Hermione sat up again and tentatively placed her hand gently atop on one of those fists. He didn’t look up at her.

“Harry . . .” The girl bit her lip. “Look, I know we’ve been . . . distracted this term. And I know that you probably needed us and we weren’t—”

Harry’s head snapped up suddenly. “I don’t . . .” He trailed off uncomfortably and turned to Ron as though seeking support, but the Gryffindor Keeper merely watched him with a look of guilty concern. 

Harry frowned and looked between his two Housemates. “You two are my best friends,” he said carefully after a moment. He removed his hand from Hermione’s with a soft tug. “My first friends and my very best friends. More so than . . . well, anybody really.” The dark-haired teen rolled his shoulders, looking acutely uncomfortable. “I ask too much of you sometimes. This . . . What I have to do . . . It’s my fight. And I don’t want you two to get hurt.” He smiled faintly. “I’m really glad you two are together. And I don’t feel left out. Not really.”

If anything, Ron’s scowl had deepened while Harry spoke. Once the smaller teen was done, the redhead crossed his legs, propping his left foot up on his right knee, and leaned back in his set, arms crossed over his chest. “That’s all well and good, mate, and you’re our best friend too. . . . Which is why we’re not going to let you worm your way out of this. You’re right: this is your fight. And that makes it our fight, too.”

Harry simply stared back at him blankly, as though he was unable to process what Ron was saying, and the youngest Weasley son threw his hands up in the air in disgust. “Bloody hell, Harry! We’ve fought giant chess people, been petrified, kidnapped by merpeople, damn near eaten by acromantulas, battled Death Eaters, gone down to the Chamber of Secrets, knocked _two_ professors unconscious, been nearly eaten by a werewolf, attacked by Dementors, gone back in time with a Time Turner, helped an escaped convict at least a dozen times, broken nearly every school rule possible—not to mention Ministry laws—smuggled out dragons, sent a professor out to be attacked by centaurs and a giant, ridden thestrals to London, battled trolls, started a secret army that was suspected of wanting to overthrow the Ministry, lost at least a thousand House Points between us, helped get Dumbledore temporarily sacked, helped save the school at least three times, and served more detentions with Snape than any other Gryffindors in the _history_ of Hogwarts, just so that we could hang out with you.” He stopped and took a deep, much needed breath, his face bright red. He looked back up at Harry, blue eyes shining in amusement. “Really, mate, do you honestly think a little thing like V—V—Vol—Voldemort—” Ron stopped, apparently startled that he had finally said the name. Then he grinned and puffed himself up slightly. “Do you honestly think a little thing like V—Voldemort is going to stop us now? Really, you must be one hell of a bloke to inspire so much loyalty.”

Harry grinned at his friend’s obvious enthusiasm, but then the expression melted away. “But what if it’s more than Voldemort?”

He seemed to draw into himself once more and Hermione immediately jumped in. “You mean Snape?”

Harry shook his head, but remained silent for a moment. He found himself staring down at his hands again. “I mean . . . What if . . . I was different again? Different like speaking parseltongue again?”

The last of Ron’s smile vanished and Hermione looked a bit lost. “How . . . different . . .? Does Dumbledore know? Is it about Voldemort? Or those muggles?”

Harry kept his eyes fixed on his lap. “I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered restlessly, unconsciously echoing his words from Potions last week. He looked as though he would like to be anywhere but there. “I . . .” The Potter heir swallowed hard and looked up at his friends. “Is it . . . is it really such an awful thing to . . . to fancy blokes?”

Ron’s eyes widened and he sat back in his seat heavily, almost collapsing. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Hermione blinked at him, frozen, apparently at a loss for words. Harry just wanted to sink through the floor and die.

“You . . .” Ron blinked several times and shook his head as though trying to clear it. “You’re a poof?”

Harry sunk down into his chair.

“All this drama,” the redhead sputtered, face flushed and looking more than a bit incredulous, “because—because you’re a bloody ponce?!”

The ball of anger in Harry’s stomach quivered and lurched. He tasted bile in his throat.

Hermione just looked at him as though he was something she’d never seen before, her brow knitted in confusion. 

And then Ron suddenly exploded into gales of laughter.

Harry started, suddenly furious, as the Gryffindor Keeper fell out of his chair to the subtly red carpet, holding his side as he laughed. “You—we thought—” the teen’s face was even redder than his hair “—Merlin’s blood, we thought it was Sirius! Or You-Know-Who!” Tears rolled down his cheeks and he could barely talk for laughing.

Harry stood up so abruptly his chair fell over backwards. His face was flushed with rage and hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his side, but his voice was deadly quiet. “Think this is funny, do you?”

Hermione recognized the tone immediately and her eyes widened in surprise. “But that’s just so normal,” she blurted out. 

Harry paused, anger momentarily forgotten as he stared at her in disbelief, and Ron laughed so hard he started choking.

Harry’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the girl. “Normal?”

The hazel-eyed prefect stood and made a placating gesture with her hands, flushing in embarrassment as she tried to get Harry to sit back down. “Well, maybe not _normal_ , but compared to . . . I mean . . . It’s just . . . Well . . . We weren’t expecting that . . .” Suddenly she turned to where her boyfriend was still chuckling and trying to catch his breath. “Ronald Weasley, get off the floor this instant and stop being a prat!” 

Harry frowned at the two of them, anger and embarrassment fading, but not gone. Ron took a moment more to collect himself before pulling himself back up to his chair with a great deal of effort. Hermione sent pleading looks Harry’s way until he bent down to retrieve his chair and then also took a seat. The three of them sat in an awkward silence for a few moments as Ron finished collecting himself and Harry bit at his lower lip.

Finally the redhead seemed to have recovered and he sat back in his chair more comfortably. “Really,” he insisted, still looking amused, “what’s going on?”

Harry shot his friend a dark look. “I’m not making this up. I . . . I think I’m gay.”

Hermione was steadily shooting Ron looks that plainly said ‘Don’t say anything stupid!’ but Ron was ignoring her. The Weasley son stared, his brows knit in confusion as he eyed Harry. After a moment he frowned slightly. “You’re really not having us on, are you?”

Harry squirmed slightly, but remained silent. 

“Oh . . .”

“Well, um . . .” Hermione leaned forward to try and capture one of Harry’s hands again, but he moved. Undeterred, she continued. “Well, there _are_ wizards and witches who . . .” She seemed to flounder for a moment.

“Play Beater for the same team,” Ron interjected, earning himself a nasty look from his girlfriend.

“Right!” the prefect continued gamely, looking as though she was just starting to warm to the subject. Her eyes took on the distant look they always did when she began to think of books. “In fact, I saw this book at Flourish and Botts that was all about homosexuality and homosexual witches and wizards. Did you know that there are spells that can only be done by them? And Bonding Spells—things like Soul Bonds and Fidelity Bonds—don’t care what preference a participant has: if your Soul Mate is a man, he’ll be chosen for you regardless of whom you’re attracted to . . . Binding spells are the ones that deal in preference . . .” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “And, if memory serves me, I believe that there was some speculation about Merlin himself being bi-sexual . . . Latent attraction to King Arthur and all, but that’s only fringe theory and rumor, nothing substantial. And then there was Ptolemy . . . But ancient peoples were much more lax about sexuality. The Spartans actually had institutionalized homosexuality in their military—they found that the warriors were more likely to be fiercer if they were fighting along side their lovers. Though, they did try to discourage it, as it was bad for procreation. I think it was only after Judeo Christian ideologies began to spread that people started to really clamp down on it . . . But then there was always Islam and Africa, not to mention India and Asia. I actually don’t know about India and Asia; I’ll have to do more research . . . But in the Ottoman Empire—”

“Hermione!”

The girl jumped suddenly as Harry’s voice cut through her thoughts. She blinked several times before focusing on the two boys and then blushed faintly when she saw them staring. 

Ron still looked somewhat bewildered, but she didn’t know if that was because of her or Harry. “We called you three times,” he said, exasperation leaking into his voice.

Her cheeks burned. “Sorry.”

Harry laughed softly, a strangely sad, humorless sound, and buried his head in his arms tiredly. He seemed oblivious to the fact that the position squished his glasses into his face in a way that couldn’t have possibly been comfortable. His friends traded worried looks and then frowned at him in concern. Ron fidgeted, plainly unsure what he was supposed to do or how to react. Hermione leaned forward in her chair and hesitantly ran a hand through Harry’s hair in a gesture of comfort. When Harry didn’t shift or protest, she sighed and scooted her seat closer so that she could lean down and rest her head on his back. His heart sounded dull and distant in her ears.

“I’m sorry,” the boy murmured after a moment.

Hermione shook her head, still resting it on his back. “For what? You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

Ron nodded even though Harry couldn’t see it, and rested his head on the table as well, using his arms for a pillow. “She’s right, mate,” he urged, still looking and sounding just a touch off balance. “I mean . . . It’s _weird_ . . . I just—I mean I never even _considered_ . . . But if that’s what makes you happy, then that’s what makes you happy. I guess.” He frowned and his forehead wrinkled. “It’s just _weird_ ,” he repeated. “But I’ll get used to it.”

Hermione lifted her head so that she could smile at Ron and Harry shifted before slowly pushing himself upright. He looked relieved, but no less tired. Hermione scooted back away from him to give him room and the Potter heir looked back and forth between his friends.

He scrubbed a hand over his scar thoughtlessly, as though pushing something away, and squinted a bit behind his glasses. There were livid-looking reddish marks where they had pressed into his face. “You don’t . . . think there’s anything wrong with me then? It’s not a bad thing?”

Hermione pursed her lips thoughtfully. “It’s not a _bad_ thing Harry . . . But some people won’t like it. The Wizarding World in general tolerates homosexuals, but some muggleborns might not. Opinions are mixed. And, well, you’re Harry Potter. If people find out—even if it isn’t their business—they’re going to make it their business, and a lot of the people who are going to make the most noise will probably be the ones who don’t like it.” 

Harry’s lips twisted in a dark smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe we can just keep it a secret?” he suggested a bit hopelessly. 

Ron’s expression darkened slightly at the bleak look on his friend’s face. “Well, we can certainly try, mate. And you know ‘Mione and I can keep our mouths shut, but things like this have a way of getting out. People will have to find out sometime. Unless you want to just stay celibate and the like.” The idea seemed to perk Ron up considerably and he straightened, eyes shining with a strange eagerness. “You don’t, do you? Because that would be brilliant!” 

Harry gave the redhead a black look, quickly squelching his apparent happiness, and Ron slouched again. He hunched over slightly, once more resting his chin on his arms, and glared at the table top. “Well, you needn’t look at me like that. You really are a good friend and all, Harry—you’re practically a Weasley. So you can see why I really don’t know want to know about you taking it up the ar—”

Hermione’s eyes grew round as teacups. “Ron!” Her voice came out as a squeal and she blushed scarlet.

Harry also turned bright red and once again hid his face in his arms. 

Ron sat up and crossed his arms, looking personally affronted. “Well, I don’t! Merlin! That’s like—that’s like some bloke messing with Ginny. Really, mate, I think I’d have to hurt him.” His blue eyes flickered between the two of them as though daring him to challenge him.

Hermione glared at her boyfriend. “You didn’t seem to feel that way about Cho,” she stated, a warning plain in her voice.

“That’s different,” the Weasley boy replied, his tone implying that the answer should be obvious. “Cho is a girl.”

“Really?” his girlfriend all but purred. “Why is Harry having sex with a girl different from Harry having sex with a boy?”

Still hidden in his arms, Harry’s face was so red that he was amazed that he wasn’t sweating blood.

Ron frowned, oblivious to Harry’s discomfort or the thin ice on which he seemed to be walking. “Well . . .” He floundered for a moment and looked around for help. “Well . . . Harry’s never shagged a bloke before!” Suddenly, he blanched and gave his best friend an absolutely horrified look. “You haven’t, have you?”

Harry sat upright as though he’d been bitten and the flush staining his face crawled down to his neck. “I haven’t shagged anyone!” he squeaked in an embarrassingly shrill voice. His embarrassment suddenly faded when he remembered the expression on Severus’s face last week and he slumped. “And it doesn’t look like I’ll be doing it anytime soon, either.” He frowned at Ron, his former ill-humor remembered. “And even when I do, I hardly think I’ll give you a blow by blow account or anything.”

At the word ‘blow,’ Ron paled even further until his freckles stood out in painful contrast to his hair.

Harry couldn’t help but snicker at the nauseous look on his face. He smiled at his beleaguered friend. “ _Relax_ , Ron. I haven’t changed. Not really. And I’m hardly going to start running around and touching up every boy I see. Anyway, most of the boys at Hogwarts aren’t all that great. Probably why it took me so long to notice, actually.”

Ron seemed to be staring at nothing. “I didn’t need to know that. I really didn’t need to know that.”

“You’re the one who keeps talking about me shagging people,” the other boy pointed out.

“Just promise me you won’t start on Malfoy soon or anything.” Ron shuddered violently. “I mean, _Malfoy_ . . .”

Harry snorted. “Malfoy’s a rodent.” He wisely neglected to point out that, however much of a prick the blond was, Malfoy had a nice arse. It would have probably sent Ron in fits.

Hermione groaned, unable to fully squelch her own blush, and dragged the two other Gryffindors back to the point. “True, but Ron’s right about one thing, at least. People will find out somehow. This kind of thing _does_ have a way of getting around.

Her eyes narrowed in thought before refocusing on him. “We can try to keep it under wraps, and of course Ron and I would never say anything, but . . . Well, this isn’t something that will stay buried long if you decide to start seeing someone. Opinions will vary. But it will probably blow over soon enough. Anyway, there are fairly common spells and potions that help homosexual witches and wizard have children together and everything. You can even buy them in Diagon Alley and in Hogsmeade. Plus, some of those spells that I mentioned that only homosexuals can do are really useful. As far as I know, they all fall under Sexual Magic and Ritual Magic, but they’re still powerful and are used in lots of places. The Founders were even said to have employed such spells when Warding the grounds.”

Ron wrinkled his nose. “Why?”

“Some Sexual Magic spells have extremely powerful protective properties, particularly if the copulation is between two people who love one another,” Hermione responded in her ‘teacher’ voice. “Sexual Magic is not only the harnessing of raw magical power, but—the White Magic spells, at least—also have strong benevolence and pleasure overtones. The Founders wanted Hogwarts to be a place of love, joy, safety, and life; all of which are very prominently displayed by White Sexual Magic.” She eyed her boyfriend with a severe expression. “It’s all in _Hogwarts: A History_ , you know.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “Of course it is. What _isn’t_ in that bloody book?”

Hermione’s expression immediately became thunderous and Harry suddenly found himself chuckling at the two’s antics. It seemed like it had been a long time since he felt this . . . normal.

Hermione switched her glare to Harry and he raised his hands in defense, still smiling. “I’ll put it on my reading list,” he offered with a wry smirk.

Ron snorted.

The girl eyed her friends mutinously, still ruffled. “It’s a perfectly marvelous book,” she sniffed. “Full of loads of useful things.”

Harry waved his hands through the air dismissively. “No one’s better at finding information than you, Hermione.” She flushed and Harry leaned forward a bit to draw his friends’ attention back to what he was saying. “Actually, since I’ve started on all this studying for class and everything, I’ve really started thinking.”

He paused as though unsure how to continue. Hermione leaned forward slightly to coax Harry to continue and the Seeker cast an uncertain look at Ron before shifting his shoulders uncomfortable. 

Harry cleared his throat unnecessarily. “Hogwarts is a target, no matter how confident Dumbledore is in the Wards. I haven’t spoken to him about it because I wanted to see what you two thought first, but I want to start up the D.A. again.” 

Ron frowned slightly, but Harry hurried on before the other teen could speak. “I remember the Department of Mysteries and how the fighting was down there. We need to know more. And I need help. Reading all these spells is all well and good, but I need to practice them and Dumbledore doesn’t want to know what all I’m studying. He made it clear that if he had official knowledge that I was ‘misusing’ my pass, he’d have to revoke it. Plus, I don’t know anything about tactics or strategy and some of these books I’ve found are getting really advanced and I feel a bit lost.” He pressed his lips into a firm line. “I want everyone else to be prepared, too. Dumbledore’s been saying lately that this war could drag on for years . . . that it could be worse than the first one—a lot worse. I can’t help with the Order until I have a better grip on Occlumency, but I don’t just want to sit around, either. Will you help me? I mean, like I said: Hermione, you’re the best when it comes to research, and no one can beat Ron at strategy. There’s a lot you two could teach me, and—with all the studying I’ve been doing—I think we could make the D.A. loads better than last term.” He smiled wanly. “Especially since we don’t have to hide from Umbridge.” He took a deep breath and looked at them expectantly.

Both Ron and Hermione were blushing again, but this time it was with pleasure, not embarrassment. Hermione’s eyes fairly glowed.

“Well, I’m definitely in! I was taking to Susan about it during Ancient Runes the other day and apparently a bunch of students feel the same. They were just worried about bothering you because you’ve looked so busy and Ron and I have been . . .” here the blush increased slightly “. . . distracted.”

Ron scratched the back of his head. “I’m in, too. Neville was making noises about his D.A.D.A. grades and I’m getting a bit worried, too. Professor Whistlemeel may not have it in for you, Harry, but her tests are a lot more difficult than the class. There was stuff on that last one that we didn’t even cover.”

“She tests two chapters ahead in the book,” Hermione interjected absently.

Ron stared at her. “You mean, you’ve been listening to me complain all last month about those exams and you didn’t tell me that before?”

“I was hoping that you’d take it upon yourself to actually do your homework,” the girl replied in a tart voice. She turned back to Harry. “You’ll talk to Dumbledore, won’t you? Ron and I will talk to others.” The idea of re-starting the club seemed to have energized her once more.

Harry nodded and began to gather his books. “You two had better get going. It’s almost curfew and Snape’ll have kittens if he catches a Gryffindor out of bed.”

Ron stood up and stretched. “Didn’t you hear?” He handed Harry a book as he spoke. “Snape’s gone.”

 _False Parables: The Real Dark Arts_ slid limply out of Harry’s hands and landed on the table with a thump. Pale, Harry looked up at Ron, his eyes round and haunted. “He quit?”

Hermione looked over at the dark-hair teen sharply, a suspicious frown wrinkling her brow. “No . . . Professor Kettleburn said that he had family business to attend to and would resume teaching again next week. Are you okay, Harry?”

He shook himself slightly and resumed gathering his books. “I’m fine,” he told the tabletop. “You two had better go, though.” He looked up with a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We may have gotten rid of Snape, but Filch is still out there.”

Ron waved his wand to disperse the Charms they’d cast around themselves. “ _Finite Incantum._ ” He frowned at Harry. “What about you?” he asked in a near whisper.

“I have to put these away. Anyway, one of us stands a better chance of getting up to the dorm unseen than three of us, and I’ve been doing this all year. I promise I’ll be right up, but you need to go.” He flipped his hand at them, waving them towards the door to emphasize the point.

Ron still looked reluctant. “A half an hour, mate, and then we come looking for you, got it?”

Harry nodded, busying himself with packing his bag. 

Hermione took a slow step towards him, her eyes clouded with suspicion. “Harry, about Snape—”

“It’s nothing,” the boy interrupted. “Now go.”

“You’re certain there’s nothing to tell us?” she pressed.

Harry’s head snapped up and he looked at her with a dark look she’d never seen before. His eyes were so intense that she took a step back instinctively. Ron started at the expression in the other boy’s eyes.

For a moment Harry held the eye contact and then looked away. He stared down at the battered quill in his hand. “No,” he responded with a shake of his head. His voice sounded strangely distant. “There’s nothing there. Snape hates me. He really hates me.”

Hermione looked at him for a moment before nodding slowly in understanding. She took a step towards him and gently squeezed his forearm in support. “Hurry back. You know Professor McGonagall will have a fit if you’re out after curfew.”

He nodded without looking up.

Ron came forward and grabbed Hermione’s free hand in his own and pulled her away. “Half an hour, mate,” he reminded before they departed.

They didn’t speak until they were out of the Library.

Hermione removed her hand from Ron’s and popped the knuckles on her right hand as they headed towards the stairs. “You shouldn’t have reacted that way,” she chided softly. “After what Myrtle said—”

“I didn’t think about it,” he interrupted, suddenly looking a bit freaked out again. “I mean . . . Well . . . When do you honestly think you’re best friend’s gay? It’s too weird.” He looked a bit green. “Weird,” he repeated.

The girl was starting to think that was going to be Ron’s favorite word regarding this latest development.

Ron became quiet for a moment. “He was lying about Snape, though.” The redhead bit his lip and his mouth twisted in disgust. “He fancies him.” He shuddered violently. “He fancies Snape and the greasy bastard not only molested him, but then he said all those awful things in class last week . . .”

Hermione stopped and gripped his wrist, recognizing the signs of Ron’s temper. 

Ron jerked to a halt and looked down at her, startled. Then he frowned. “We have to report him to Dumbledore. Professors shouldn’t be messing with students. Anyway, Harry might not even be gay. Snape’s just got him all confused and—”

“He’ll be _sacked_ ,” Hermione hissed. 

She cast a quick glance around the hall and then hauled Ron into an isolated alcove. There was a young man in a portrait who snorted himself awake when they entered the little corner and began making kissy noises. Ron glared at the man and made a threatening gesture until the man sniffed, insulted, and left the portrait. Ron turned his attention back to Hermione.

“He _deserves to be sacked!_ he whispered back furiously. “Harry was mess because of him. The entire school’s in an uproar. Merlin, we haven’t even snogged in three days because of this mess!”

Hermione blushed, but was not deterred. “Ron, _think!_ Snape is a _spy_. The Headmaster cannot get rid of him. Besides, Professor Dumbledore has tea with Harry every week and they practice Occlumency. Do you _really_ think he doesn’t know? Something else has to be going on here. Anyway, if we went to the Headmaster or Professor McGonagall, Harry would be furious. He’d think we betrayed him. Hopefully the D.A. will distract Harry enough so that he can work this out, but right now the best thing we can do is wait. If we approach Snape, who know what he’ll do, and Harry’s not going to give up any more than he already has.”

“So that’s it? We just wait till that student-molesting, slimy bastard does something else? We already know he hit Harry. Maybe next time he’ll put him in the Hospital Wing!”

“No.” Hermione’s eyes darkened slightly at the memory of the look on Harry’s face last week. “No. This time we watch. We know what to look for now, and D.A. will give us more of a chance to watch Harry. We’ll have to start studying together again to teach D.A. and he said he wants our help anyway. And if Snape does anything else to Harry, we’ll find a way to deal with it ourselves without getting Snape sacked and without Harry finding out. He has enough to worry about as it is.”

Ron paused and then smiled down at his girlfriend. He laughed softly. “Brilliant, but scary,” he murmured.

Hermione blushed and tried to duck her head, but Ron caught her chin and pulled her up into a gentle kiss. A shiver ran up her spine and she parted his lips beneath him, unable to stop herself from clutching at his forearms when she felt the tip of his tongue flicker against her bottom lip. Feeling shaky and breathless, she pulled away. 

“We’ll be caught,” she whispered into his shoulder. 

“No fun at all,” her groused. But then Ron kissed the top of her head and pulled away with a long-suffering sigh.

Hermione extracted herself from the corner and straightened her uniform unnecessarily. “Come on. Ms. Norris will be on the prowl.”

Ron joined her, fussing with his tie grumpily. “Must you always be so proper?”

The girl sniffed in disdain and began to head up towards the stairs once more with surprisingly rapid steps. “Yes, I must. I’m a prefect. So are you, I might add. Anyway,” she continued, pausing to look over her shoulder, “if we’re caught, then we’ll hardly have any private time at all in the boy’s dorm before Seamus, Neville, and Justin barge in. So hurry it up.”

Ron blinked, stunned at his girlfriend’s words, and found himself entranced by the all-too-rare light of mischief sparkling in her hazel eyes. She laughed at him and he suddenly found himself hurrying, all other concerns momentarily forgotten.

  


**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**  



	9. Six II: The Reapers Reaping Early

**_  
Where the Heart Moves the Stone_**  
~ Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc ~  
\- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
10.7.2003

**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**~ Chapter Six II ~  
The Reapers Reaping Early**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**  
“We stand in a circle,  
We stand in the square:  
The power of numbers—  
The power of prayer.  
The churches are empty,  
The priest has gone home;  
And we are left standing  
Together alone.”  
 **  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  


_M_ y father is a monstrous human being. But he is a human being nonetheless. I remind myself of this as I walk the long, heavily wooded path that leads to Snape Manor. Snape Manor. My home.

The Wards that shield the manor from muggles also prevent direct Apparition. It would be too much to expect the old man to have sent me a portkey. That leaves me with a five mile walk to the house from the nearest Apparition point. Normally, I would have enjoyed the walk—used the distance to collect and center myself. Now, I simply wish it was over and done with and I was back in the quiet and shattered glass of my quarters. I must have done something truly awful to the House Elves, for now the only one that can bear my presence is the blubbering creature Crouch dismissed two years ago.

I find myself thinking of Potter and wondering what he is doing. Wondering if he is alright. Wondering if he still misses me.

Then I find myself trying to think of nothing at all—to Occloud my mind from myself and ignore the fact that this child has taken up residence _under my very skin_.

It is hot and I find myself wishing I had worn cooler robes, but my black, multi-layer work robes were the only clean ones I could find. For a moment, I seriously debate going back to Hogwarts to change, but my pocket watch tells me that it’s 1:00 PM and I stepped into the boundaries of the Wards at exactly 12:30. I’m already on Snape land. I can leave now, but I know I’ll not be able to return. The thought does not disturb me. There is little in the Manor that interests me—some portraits and heirlooms of my mother, the books in my father’s study and the library, my paternal great-grandfather’s potions’ notes . . . Really, considering the size of the estate—mostly my mother’s dowry—there are few things I desire from that place.

I stop in the middle of the road and turn around to look behind me. The dusty path vanishes in a curve and is hidden by tall, sickly looking oak trees, the yellow and red leaves turning the whole area into a fiery riot of autumn colors. There are no birds or animals in this place, nor have there ever been in my lifetime. Any creature foolish enough to roam onto Snape land usually met an unpleasant end as part of my father’s ‘research.’ Creatures, both light and dark, quickly learned to avoid this place. The lack of life gives the forest path a dead, lusterless quality to it—like one of those muggle portraits that do not move. 

I walk to the edge of the road and sit beneath a maple tree that looks dead despite its turning leaves. I allow my head to fall back to rest against the bark and stare up at a cerulean blue afternoon sky.

Why did I come to this place? I am besieged by a strange urgency—a profound _need_ to return to Hogwarts. I feel out of place, as though I’ve lost something, and I know that if I take even one step backwards on the path, I’ll not stop until I’ve reached the edge of the Wards and gone back to the school. To Dumbledore. To Potter. 

I close my eyes. 

Until I met Potter, I was not in the habit of running away. Strategically retreating, yes. Running, no. If I leave now, it will be running and I know that, but the idea of going even one step further towards the Manor—away from Potter ( _Hogwarts!_ )—is enough to make me feel ill. 

I should return to Hogwarts.

Dread crawls up my throat like bile and I exhale heavily to rid myself of the sensation. 

I should return, but I will not. I came here to escape Hogwarts—that brat and that sadistic old bastard—and the idea of returning like a beaten dog with my tail between my legs is smothering. I am _not_ Sirius Black, and I do not do imitations. I will not return—even if the idea of going any farther makes me sick to my stomach and weary to my bones. Too weary.

It occurs to me almost vaguely that I should probably not be sitting here like this. After all, Father is not above releasing one of his ‘pets’ to patrol the grounds. My pocket watch chimes softly inside my robes, letting me know that somehow it’s already 2 o’clock and the last thing I can think of before I drift off to sleep is a disbelieving pair of hurt green eyes.

****

  


*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


Narcissa knelt before the Dark Lord’s dais, pale and shaken. A well-timed Crucio had caused her normally impeccable hair to fall free of its delicate jeweled bindings and it flowed down her back to her waist. The Curse had also added a flush of red to her pale cheeks and unshed tears magnified her blue eyes. The other Death Eaters—so rarely in the presence of Lucius’s beloved wife without the wildly jealous Malfoy patriarch—circled her like jackals. She shuddered in fear and found herself desperately wishing her husband was here.

Was this really what he was forced to endure every meeting? How could he bear it?

“Lady Narcisssa . . .”

The Malfoy matriarch suppressed another shudder and tried to pass the tremor in her limbs off as the after-affects of the Unforgivable. If Lucius had endured all of this for years, she could stand a few more months. By then, hopefully Draco will have made sufficient progress with Potter that she could finally begin to formally pull away from Voldemort. By then, hopefully, she could get Lucius the help he needed. 

Right now, they were so deeply entangled in both the Ministry and the Death Eaters that she didn’t dare bring a Healer in to see her husband. Lucius was beginning to deteriorate too rapidly, and there was little she could do. If Voldemort discovered the true severity of her husband’s condition, he would order the man executed to ensure that Lucius didn’t accidentally reveal the Dark Lord’s secrets. If the Ministry discovered Lucius’s condition, they would put him in St. Mungo’s, where the Dark Lord would no doubt have him killed. No matter what happened, Lucius was in danger. They needed an alliance with Potter soon.

“Lady Narcisssssa . . .” The Dark Lord repeated. His elongated fingers drummed in a slow, unhappy cadence in the wooden arm of his chair. “Have you understood me?”

The woman nodded jerkily. “I will bear the Glass to Hogwarts in Nott’s stead.”

“And your impetuoussss young Dragon, my lady?” The mocking curl he put into her faux title made her skin crawl.

The Black family was related—very, very, very distantly—to the Royal Family through a squib cousin who had married into the family that would become the Saxe-Coburg-Gotha House in the seventeenth century, thus giving rise in Pure Blood circles to the title of Lordship to the Heirs of the House of Black, regardless of the fact that in the muggle world the connection was unknown. The Royal Family eventually changed their last name to Windsor during the muggle Great War for political reasons, but Wizard Family Trees were updated by magical means, so such paper changes in the muggle world did not affect the Black family and the connection between the two Houses remained.

Lord Regulus and Lady Narcissa . . . They used to have such fun at the balls when they were younger.

“Draco has not replied to my last letter, but I believe he understands the . . . importance . . . of his complicity in this event. He will not interfere in your plans, Master, and will no doubt do all he can to make Potter—” 

“ _He is not to interfere at all!_ ” the serpentine man snarled abruptly. “Too often these days a Malfoy’s attemptss to ‘help’ have bungled my planss. I will not allow thisss to continue.” The Dark Lord leaned forward in his chair and pointed a long, boney finger at her. “Heed my words, Lady Malfoy, anyone—ssstudent, Death Eater, staff, or ally—who stands in your path is to be _cut down_. Whether that is your son, Albus Dumbledore, or Merlin himself. Do you undersstand me? I will not have my way barred by a _sixteen-year-old half-blood_ , no matter what the prophecies say. Harry Potter _musssst_ be eliminated!”

Narcissa dropped her head low in acquiescence so that she would not have to look at the manic gleam in the eyes of her husband’s Master.

“Avery! Goyle! Crabbe and Jassperssstone!”

The four Death Eaters emerged and knelt before Voldemort beside Narcissa as he called them out. 

The Dark Lord settled back in his seat and regarded the five of them with narrowly slitted red eyes. He lazily waved his hand in the air with a slow, caressing motion and the mirror most of those gathered had helped mend weeks before slowly rose up from the floor behind him and floated forward. A heavy black velvet cloth hid the shimmering surface from view. “You will accompany our dear Lady here to bear the mirror to Hogwartssss. I need not tell you not to break it or look at the glass. As thisss is a magical mirror, it cannot be shrunken or taken by way of Apparitttion. A portkey will deliver you to the edge of Hogsmead and you are to travel through the to deliver the Glassss to young Micah. He will be waiting at the southern edge of the Wardss to carry it forth. Severusssss knows nothing of this operation, and should he find out, I will know that you have failed. The successss of this plan depends on your ability to be . . . covert.” His thin lips stretched slowly into a macabre smirk that revealed far more teeth than a human being should rightly have. Narcissa dropped her gaze again. “It would be most . . . _unwissssse_ to fail me, my little serpents.”

The five all nodded their heads in understanding. Far too much time, energy, and planning had gone into this to fail now, and—however much Narcissa desired to be free of the snare in which her husband had entrapped them—she knew that to fail the Dark Lord in this would surely mean her death. She would bear the mirror to Hogwarts if it was the last thing she ever did. This way, at least, she might try and regain her family’s position in Voldemort’s admittedly meager good graces and buy enough time for Draco to secure them a new alliance.

Still, as she rose and place the porcelain white mask of a Death Eater over her pale features for the first time in her life, she could not help but feel as though she were in over her head. 

As though she were suffocating.

A murmured spell from Lord Voldemort changed her silk azure dress robes into the plain black robes of a Death Eater and Jasperstone took the lead, a fragment of a broken plate in his left hand acting as their portkey. Narcissa, Goyle, Crabbe, and Avery all removed their wands and carefully took the Glass from Voldemort with whispered _Wingardium Leviosa_ s. 

“Be gone and make haste,” Voldemort hissed, sending them on their way. 

The other Death Eaters closed ranks behind them as they walked out of the once magnificent ballroom at a careful, measured pace to avoid jostling or shifting their burden unnecessarily. Walking in front, Jasperstone paused and turned to look over his shoulder at Narcissa. His milky green left eye chilled her as the blind orb came to focus on her. It looked eerie and unnatural next to the pale jade of his right eye.

“Don’t worry,” he told her in a deep, mocking voice, only slightly muffled by his mask. “Micah will not fail our Lord.” The implied slight against Draco did not go unnoticed and the Malfoy matriarch’s blue eyes flashed like broken ice behind her mask.

Then she simply sighed wearily. The heavy mask reflected the warm, moist air that could not escape through the narrow mouth slit back at her face. A twinge between her shoulder blades made her back itch. The heavy doors to Riddle Manor swung open before them and, as they stepped out, she had to avert her gaze from the western sky. The sun was barely beginning to sink and they were set to meet Jasperstone’s son at the edge of the Wards at 10:00. They had roughly 4 hours until the meeting time. It was going to be a long evening.

 _Soon,_ the woman promised herself. A damp, chill wind blew. _Soon this will all be over. Soon my family will be safe . . . I only need to buy a bit more time._

She only hoped that Draco understood that he had to keep Potter away from this Glass, whatever the cost . . . And that—for just once in his life—he was wise enough to simply do as he was told and stay safely in the castle this night.

****

  


*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


I awake near seven o’clock with another half hour of walking before me. The idea that I could have easily been killed rather horribly in my sleep does not disturb me nearly as much as it probably should. I spare a moment to wonder if he would mourn me before pushing myself to my feet in disgust.

Get the _fuck_ out of my head, Harry Potter. 

If I dreamed I can’t remember it, and I try to distract myself with the shadows cast by the fading twilight as I walk. A chill settled on me and there is a curious ache in my joints that I cannot place. I suppose that’s what I get for falling asleep outside in November. 

As a child, I used to roam these woods for hours in search of herbs and mushrooms to use in potions. I slept outside more than I slept inside during the warmer months. Outside, at least I didn’t have to be near my parents. My mother may have been a religious zealot, but she was easier to bear than my father. She, at least, did what she did out of love—even if she did love penance more than me. My father, on the other hand, was and is not capable of such emotion. He knows only jealousy and, even if he had the whole world at his feet, would still find something lacking. 

And I am the product of this union.

The gables of the manor do not rise up against the horizon soon enough for me and the waning moon does not provide as much light as I would have liked for this journey. The wind blows cold, making me grateful now for my heavier robes and I finally come to a halt at the end of the road. A large iron-wrought gate topped off with a sinuous and archaic looking ‘S’ swings open with a groan of protest.

I step through slowly and something in my gut lurches. 

The manor is a large, dark place. Five gables—one at each cardinal point of the house and the fifth dead in the building’s center—rise two stories higher than the three visible stories, so tall they are almost like towers. The roof of the North Gable is missing entirely and it looks as though it was ravaged by an explosion of Longbottom proportions. The windows gape down at me, dead eyes that do not blink, and several shingles litter the ground. The lawn, its length carefully maintained by magical means, looks brittle and yellow. Unwelcoming. 

I take in the subtle changes and the things that have remained the same with a blank gaze. My steps are heavy as I resume my pace, uneager to continue with this escapade. I do not know what I expected, but somehow this slow internal decay takes me off guard. This place was once my home.

The thought makes something throb deep inside me. This place was once the only world I knew, and now I would rather be any place on earth more than here. Except, perhaps for Hogwarts. Hogwarts was once my home, too. Now every time I look at the place all I can see is a pair of green eyes and a little boy for whom I’d give ten years of my life to fuck senseless.

Home is where the heart is, I suppose.

The massive front doors swing open before I can touch them, much as they always have, and I walk through them into the foyer, much as I always have. Twenty years . . . The last time I left this place, I was merely a murderer. Now I’m a murderer, Death Eater, spy, and pedophile. Father must be so disappointed in me. The more things change . . .

I should return to Hogwarts. The thought makes the damaged muscle in my left hand spasm.

There is no tired-looking House Elf to greet me today. No soft padded steps of a kneazle or scrape of crup claws (or anything else’s claws) on the ancient, polished hardwood floors. I find myself standing in the foyer, feeling loose and disorganized, and straining to hear the whisper of faint Latin singing coming from upstairs. I hear it, a distant long-gone thing. But the voice is only in my memory: the shadowy strains of a woman with big blue-green eyes and oily black hair named Sourdine Gabriella Snape. 

_“Now kneel on the floor and press your palms together, angelo. Yes, just like that. Now bring them up to your face and repeat after Momma. ‘Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis, et tibi Pater: quia peccavi nimis cogitatione verbo, et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Joannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te Pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum Nostrum.’”_

My lips move in time with the memory. “Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Joannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te Pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum Nostrum.”

All is silent.

I look around, taking in the heavily carved wooden panels, the tall grandfather clock directly in front of the door, the expensive rugs tossed about at even, perfectly planned intervals, all spotless and soft as new. I used to lie on those rugs for hours, staring at the ceiling, making potions in my head, and waiting for father to allow me into the study to speak with him.

_“That boy needs to learn patience! I’ll not have you raising that miserable little wretch up to be some spoiled milksop, Sourdine—it’s bad enough that you fill his head up with all that outdated muggle gibberish!”_

I take another step into the manor and a floorboard creaks beneath me in accusation.

“Boy!”

_“Boy!”_

I flinch reflexively. 

“What the hell are you mincing about out there for? Get in here!”

_“Did I call you here, boy?! Go to your room and I don’t want to here a peep from you until you’re summoned!”_

I scowl, angry with myself. Fear of a memory . . . This is ridiculous. I am _ten times_ the wizard Aigris Désunis Snape is or ever was. I have more power in my pinky than that half-squib has in his whole body and here I am, cowering outside his door like a child. I fix my mouth in a firm sneer and turn to the closed double doors of the study to my right. The floor boards squeal as I stride over them, just as they did twenty years ago—just as he spelled them to do. The doors shudder open reluctantly as I approach and I give the corner of the left one a discreet, spiteful kick as I pass it. They boom shut behind me in a futile attempt to catch my robes. Another thing that remains the same.

It’s actually a small room, plain and rectangular, with only one large window. When the sun sets, I recall, the red light pours in and catches the dust motes in the air, making the room look awash in flame. It’s a pity I missed it. The walls are still paneled with plain, unadorned redwood and a plush green carpet is still in the center of the floor. Bookshelves still line the walls, bulging with their ancient tomes and scrolls, overflowing with parchments, and the occasional odd and end. Directly in front of me, the enormous fireplace, large enough for a man to stand in comfortably, is still cold and empty and the two leather chairs with their small round table between them still bear their familiar coating of dust, now as thick as it ever was. 

My mother’s portrait is still above the hearth as well. A layer of dust also covers that; Father had the spell on it overlaid, freezing her image in an eternally sorrowful position, legs tucked under her in her seat on the crimson, high backed chaise, long, silver-streaked hair tumbling over her shoulders as she buries her head in her hands. She was no doubt pleading with him not to freeze her portrait at the moment the spell was cast. I take in the folds and wrinkles in her elegant dress with a mixture of anger and scorn. Even in her death, he tortures her. And even in her death, she meekly accepts it as some sort of righteous penance. Stupid woman. 

I look away, feeling ill. To my right there is nothing but another wall of heavily laden bookshelves, but to my left, farther up the length of the room and set directly in front of the window, is my father’s desk. It is an old thing, small in comparison to my large, oaken desk at Hogwarts, but immaculately polished. There are piles of books on the floor around it and piles of papers and nasty-looking knickknacks piled in a chaotic jumble on the surface. A leather chair from the set in front of the fireplace is set at a diagonal from the corner of the desk, closest to the wall across from the fireplace. There is no dust on this seat, as it is the only seat in the study that the meager visitors to this room are permitted to use. My father’s chair, the fourth in the set, is behind the desk and I blink when I see him there hunched over a bit of parchment. 

The patriarch of my House has not aged well at all. He looks less like a man and more like a wisp of cracked, poorly dried animal hide. His fingers have become great, long, spindly things, like busy, writhing spiders attached to his wrists. Most of his hair has fallen out and what little remains has become limp and thin, a fine sheen of white through which the smooth, yellowed and blue-veined flesh of his skull shines in the flickering candlelight. He looks up at me, black eyes cavernous and dull, and his wet, blackish lips twist unpleasantly, reminding me of worms. He waves a skeletal arm at the chair indicating that I should sit, and I comply automatically, watching that spidery hand twitch through the air warily. 

As I come closer, I can see that he’s shrunken. Once tall and muscular, his frame is now little more than a withered bit of old meat clinging to a pile of bones. He looks emaciated and almost comically scarecrow-ish beneath the heavy drapery of his robes. I seat myself gingerly in the chair and watch him bend over his bit of parchment. His nose, a nose which I unfortunately inherited, is still the most prominent thing on his face. If anything, it seems to have actually _grown_ , though that could be the effect of his skin shrinking into fine folds and clinging to his skull. One of those large, arachnid hands scrawls something on the bit of paper with a battered quill and it suddenly strikes me how very long his nails are. I shudder and allow my gaze to wander to the window as it always had when I was younger. 

I note with vague apprehension that the enormous spider web in the left corner of the ceiling still remains. It actually seems to have expanded, and is at least a good foot wider than it was before. The wreck of human being across from me finally places down his quill as I search for the freakishly large specimen of _Tegenaria agrestis_ that has seemingly occupied that web since before I was born. I’ve always suspected that my father spelled that creature to be enormous and long lived. No Hobo Spider is supposed to be the size of a man’s head. 

“So you’re alive,” he wheezes nastily at me in greeting. His voice is breathy, as though he can’t quite get enough air. “And late nonetheless.” He coughs then, a wet, painful noise, as though the words had cost him something vital.

My gaze slides back to him and I lazily flick a piece of hair out of my eyes. “Apparently.” I deliberately drawl the word and watch my tone work over him like iodine in an open wound.

He snorts, an unpleasantly visceral noise. “Yes, well, if wishes were wings and all.” His eyes rake over me and he makes another loose hacking noise behind his hand in obvious disapproval. “This is the product of a teacher’s wage?” he sneers. “I had hoped that you’d be dead by now. Either Dumbledore or the Dark Lord has no doubt had cause to kill you a dozen times.”

Something large, multi-pedal, and very much _alive_ chooses that exact moment to skitter across his desk with a great deal of clicking noises. I watch in fascination as the thing sends a pile of books tumbling to the floor and several pieces of parchment flying into the air. My father emits a shrill shriek of victory, seizes a sharp letter opener from Merlin only knows where, and stabs the thing with a swift, violent movement. A sudden jet emerald fluid shoots up into the air. He does not seem to notice when it splatters all over him and his papers. He pulls the knife out of the pile of papers he’s stabbed and holds it up, tip in the air. Speared along side a piece of green stained parchment is a something resembling a hairy, purple ball, roughly the size of my fist, with six spindly, claw-tipped legs projecting out of it. The legs twitch and spasm, claws working uselessly at the air, and an upside down pair of alarmingly human eyes look at me in terror. 

The old man waves the dying creature in my direction. “Yet another failure,” he rasps. The thing is emitting a low-pitch scream. My father smiles at me, a cadaverous expression, and flicks the letter opener to his left, sending the creature sailing off the blade. “At least _it_ has the decency to die properly.”

The thing hits the paneling of a bookshelf with a sickening crack, shrieks horribly, and lands on the floor with a wet noise. I look at it for a moment in disinterest before turning back to the man in front of me. 

My father was . . . is a Pariomagus—one who uses magic, potions, and breeding to create new species out of old ones. It’s rather like alchemy using living creatures. The practice has been illegal since 1156—two years after the Dementor Wars—and the penalty is an automatic life in Azkaban, but he saw little reason to allow that to deter him. He always used to threaten my mother that he would use me in one of his projects if she stepped out of line. In retaliation, she took a potion that rendered her infertile, thus insuring that I would remain his only legitimate offspring.

Aigris Désunis Snape never cared for his family, neither me nor my mother. His interest in her extended to her faithfulness, public appearance, and ability to bear him suitable sons and fodder for his experiments—a plan that went terribly wrong after she became barren—and his concern for me was only to see that I was suitable heir. By the age of two, it was clear that I would not be, so he began planning my disposal. The first order of business was to impregnate my mother again, but by then she had taken her own measures. When it became clear that I was to be his _only_ legitimate heir (my parents’ marriage contract forbid remarriage for either party regardless of the circumstances), he ceased to show any real interest in me at all, beyond using me as leverage against my mother.

Children are precious in Wizarding families—our numbers are small enough as it is—and to intentionally harm a child is an offense worse than the use of an Unforgivable. He therefore never physically abused me, but he certainly never loved me. Even his marriage to my mother was more like some sort of perverse revenge against her for ruining her womb rather than a real relationship. After my mother killed herself, House Elves and some of the tamer of my father’s creations whom I stole away from him were my only companions.

My eyes flicker back to the ceiling—there’s something profoundly disconcerting about looking at my father—and the slow glide of a hairy arachnid leg, thick as a human finger and far too long, catches my attention, drawing it back to the spider web. Father ignores me in favor of his piles of parchments once more, and I can feel my hand twitch towards my wand. The old man’s breath rattles wetly in and out of his lungs, as though something were loose and broken inside him.

 _Exsanguis_ , I imagine saying. And that enormous spider would twitch and spasm and crumple in the way that spiders in pain always do as it literally sweated blood through its hair follicles (because spiders do not have pores like humans). And it would bleed itself to an anguished and ignominious death. I imagine the look on my father’s face as I kill his pet. I imagine that the spider is his hands.

Or better yet: _Eptum_. Messy. And then the study would be littered small bits of bone and flesh and red human blood would mingle in with that of the dead purple creature and he would scream and scream and scream . . . I look away and force myself to loosen my grip on my wand. My left hand spasms convulsively.

“Did you call me here for a reason?”

The old man jumps and his head snaps up, staring at me in bewilderment, as though he’d forgotten I was here. The motion does not surprise me; he often forgot about me when I was younger. I think he prefers it that way, really. 

He glares at me for a moment, thick lips twisting like night crawlers on wet pavement, before they settle into a sneer. He throws his quill down again and pulls back into his seat.

“Ungrateful little bastard,” those shiny lips snarl. I feel nauseous and look back up to his eyes. He turns away, apparently searching for something now. Spindly finger jerk and twitch as he begins to rummage through the piles of papers on his desk.

“You’re teaching Harry Potter now?” My eyes narrow at the sudden change of subject, but he continues, apparently needing no input from me. “Hmph. If I was you, I’d have poisoned the little mudblood snot by now. Wasting your time. Wasting your _life_! And _you_ are the fruit of my seed!” A pile of papers topples over and he swipes a hand at me through the air as though dismissing the topic of my worthlessness once again. “Bastards and whores’ sons, the whole Potter line.”

Something inside me lurches at the idea of him talking about Harry. _My_ Harry. He has no _right_ —

My hand twitches towards my wand again and I make a fist to suppress the urge. _Avada Kedavra_ I’d say. 

I force my mind back to his rambling.

“Then marrying a muggle born?” He shakes his head and the light shines in a smooth curve on his skull. “Disgraceful. If Samael Potter had had an ounce of dignity he’d have killed his son for sullying pure blood. Fucking _Potters_. _Harry Potter_. You mark me; he’s just the same as the lot of them. Bad blood—bad stock! All of them.” 

The man stops his rummaging to glare at me once more. A long finger, more than slightly reminiscent of that spider leg, points at me accusingly. “Have you nothing to say to redeem yourself?”

I watch in disgust as a bit of spittle lingers on his lower lip before falling onto his chin. I raise my eyes to meet his again and feel a powerful swelling of loathing for this man. It occurs to me that people like this—small, weak, petty, and vile—probably say Harry Potter’s name everyday. But that does not mean that I have to like it.

Father huffs irritably at his failure to get a rise out of me and I wonder where the massive, dominating man from my childhood went. He changed after Mother died. He became silent, less . . . overwhelming. More a flash fire than a hurricane. I think he was lost after she died. However much he hated her, she gave him a focus point—a purpose. Now he is nothing more than a wispy bit of flesh trapped behind a desk larger and more impressive than him and surrounded by his continual failures. He turns back to his papers and resumes rummaging about.

I look away, wishing I was elsewhere, but knowing I have nowhere else to be. I should return to Hogwarts. I find I have nothing to say to this man. There once was a time when I would have gladly sacrificed one of my arms for a kind word from my father, a hint of regard . . . A scrap of _any_ acknowledgement was once more precious to me than ambrosia. And now . . . 

Now I wish this man would have simply died and left me in peace, such as my life is. I hold no feelings or regard for my father now beyond a low, throbbing resentment—a contempt that I cannot place or describe. It is worse than hatred, I think. He is not worth my hatred and I wonder that I ever believed he was.

Abruptly, his rummaging ceases and Father looks up at me, his face oddly devoid of emotion. “I am dying, Severus.”

He says this as though I should have some sort of reaction. As though I should care.

Perhaps _he_ is the one who needs to redeem himself. But I can and will not offer him any sort of absolution.

I tilt my head very slightly to the side. “Yes. You are.”

“ _I am dying_ ,” he repeats emphatically, attempting to impress his urgency on me with a slight lifting of his hands. “And you are all I have to show for my life.”

I press my thin lips into a narrow line. “What do you want of me then? I have nothing to offer you.”

My father looks at me, his expressionless features looking waxy and artificial in the backlight of the slowly rising moon. “You are a rotten child, Severus. And the fault is my own.”

The statement is so quiet, and his raspy, pained voice is so still, that for a moment I don’t even register the words. 

“What?”

“I never wanted children,” the old man bites out, looking personally affronted. He glares at me as though I was to blame. “I never wanted a _wife_.” The word is filled with venom. “I never wanted _you_ and if I’d had my way, I’d have used you in an experiment long ago. But I needed a bloody heir—someone to leave my vast fortune” (here he made an all-encompassing gesture to the room) “to. And instead I got you. _You_ —a poisonous, venomous worthless little shit. And you are all I have to show for my life’s work.” He sneered, but this time the expression is directed more towards himself, I think, than me.

I stare at him for a moment and feel something heavy and hot churn restlessly in my stomach. I felt like this the first time I cast _Avada Kedavra_ —lightheaded and too heavy all at once. It was not disgust with myself for casting the Curse; it was empowerment from knowing that I _could_ cast the Curse. My lips twist into a sneer that he was once capable of and I lean back into the uncomfortable, squeaky leather with a sneer.

“You are dying—” something flickers in his eyes as I say this, but he remains silent, “—and you have called me here to pat yourself on the back? Say that you did all you could? Claim it was ‘bad stock?’”

His too-large Adam’s apple bobs heavily as he swallows, but he says nothing. 

My eyes wander towards the spider web on the ceiling again. The creature is half out of the grey mass of webbing and watching me now—front four legs resting lightly on the walls and eight black marble-sized eyes looking down at me. I watch it with indifference. When I was a child and the spider was slightly smaller, it bit me once. My father laughed as my arm swelled too big for the string bracelet my mother had woven for me and I screamed so loudly that the House Elves in the kitchen dropped the dishes. Mother came in and rescued me, sweeping me up in her arms while father simply watched and laughed. I was perhaps four or five at the time, and it was the day I truly began to hate my father. But a child’s hatred is a fast, transient thing. Now, I find nothing inside me for this man, not even pity.

He wants me to repent—to beg forgiveness for my failings and transgressions and claim that everything that has happened was my fault. This . . . _man_ . . . wants to die with a clean conscience.

There is no such thing as a clean conscience. Not in a world with Dark Lords, and Dumbledores, and green eyes, and Original Sin.

And I do not beg.

So I sneer at him, looking at him with a contempt that only a Death Eater could bring to bear. “You are a fool.” My voice sounds curiously hollow in the over-crowded room. “Why have you really called me here? To ask for my ‘absolution?’ I have none to give you, Aigris Snape. You never cared for anything but yourself, both in your life, and now in your death. You lacked the resolve to dominate any forum or cause or excel at any task and so you have no choice but to surround yourself with your failures. You are correct—you are dying, Father. And I am all you have to show for it. If you need absolution, then you have no one to blame but yourself. Do not, however think that you have made me who I am; you have not. In fact, you disinterest in me has determined that you have had no bearing on my life whatsoever. You should be proud of that, at least; you have not raised a Death Eater.”

His black eyes fix on me for a moment and something like understanding passes through them. Understanding and hatred. I have nothing to offer him and he knows it. The only thing he hates more than me is the idea of his elder sister in France inheriting the estate; that is the reason he called me here. I settle back in my chair, oddly relaxed in this room I used to hate so. 

I match his sneer with my own. This man has no more power over me.

He hunches over slightly and coughs into his hand again. When he looks up at me, I can see that his palm is stained with blood. “I truly hate you, Severus. The very broken, sniveling image of your mother.”

He coughs again painfully and I tilt my head to the side. He meant it when he said he was dying. He meant that he was dying right now. He waited until the last possible moment to get these affairs in order. I gingerly reach out and pluck the sheaf of inheritance scrolls off his desk and remove the red ink quill I always carry to grade papers in my spare time. I sign each of the papers in turn in a smooth, easy hand. “And you, Father, are a coward.”

Out in the hallway, the old grandfather clock chimes eight times as I work over the papers and father’s wet, strained breathing becomes more and more labored. I used to hate that clock as a child, it only clicked out more and more hours of my life—my mother’s life—under the control of this man. Now, I find I do not mind its rusted hourly cries nearly so much. 

Tonight, they are not meant for me.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


Draco popped open his pocket watch and stared down at the ornately decorated face. The silver moon that currently occupied the foreground of the expensive heirloom grinned at him and winked with twinkling blue eyes that reminded him eerily of Dumbledore. The short minute hand ticked passed the four. It was nine twenty-one now. Granger and the Weasel had been gone for just over fifteen minutes and Potter still hadn’t emerged. The Dumbledore blue eyes of the Man in the Moon twinkled at him once more, mimicking the stars behind him, and Draco slammed the watch shut with unnecessary violence.

His mother had sent him a letter with important information about Voldemort’s latest plans to eliminate Potter and, though she’d told him—ordered him, even—to stay well and away from the Wards tonight, he had no intention of obeying her. This was a golden opportunity—a once in a lifetime moment. He’d be a fool if he didn’t take the chance to prove himself to Potter now. That was what that little display on the Pitch was about, no doubt. Potter wanted proof of Draco’s sincerity, and Draco’s inability to say the name had undermined his overtures. It was a surprisingly insightful move for the harebrained Gryffindor to make; Potter had always struck him as the sort who leapt first and didn’t take the time to look until he was halfway down the cliff face. 

He had imagined that it would be a great deal easier to forge an alliance with the other boy and had been sorely disappointed when Potter had proven him wrong. But he was running out of time, and none of his other choices were favorable. Snape, he knew now, was a dead end. There was no one else he could think of with both the power, authority, and potential motive to Obliviate him, but—at least, until he knew _what_ exactly the greasy old bat had blocked from his mind—there was nothing he could do. 

Stormy silver eyes narrowed as the blond considered his Head of House. The moment he figured out what exactly Snape had risked so much to hide, he’d have the bastard’s arse in a sling. And if he had his alliance by then, Potter would no doubt be more than happy to join him—their enmity was, after all, legendary. Particularly after last week. Even without dear St. Potter’s help, tampering with a person’s memory was illegal. Snape would be sacked for sure.

But first he had to work on Potter, then everything else would fall into line. 

And he would make damn sure that Snape _paid_ for interfering in Malfoy affairs.

One of the Library’s tall double doors creaked open warily and a pale face capped by messy black hair peered out into the corridor cautiously. Draco pulled back into the shadows, more put of reflex than anything else. Apparently confident that he was alone, Potter slipped out of the Library with practiced ease and set off towards the master stair room with quick, surprisingly light steps. As the smaller teen passed Draco’s alcove, a pale hand snaked out of the shadows and grabbed him by the wrist. To his credit, Potter did not cry out, or even stiffen; instead, the Gryffindor relaxed and used the pulling motion to spin ‘round to face his captor, wand out faster than Draco would have believed possible. 

The blond took a quick step back and hit the wall behind him, eyes wide. “Potter, it’s me!”

The length of holly pointing at his forehead didn’t shift an inch and Draco could barely resist crossing his eyes to stare at the tip. 

Harry pulled his wrist out of Draco’s grip and glared hatefully at his Slytherin classmate. “What do _you_ want, Malfoy?”

“The same thing I wanted last weekend,” the boy hissed in obvious agitation. “Now put that damn thing away before you take my eye out or something!”

The small mouth quirked into an eerie smirk that set Draco’s skin crawling, but after a moment’s hesitation the wand was lowered. Harry took a step way from the blond and ran a hand back through his hair, only succeeding in mussing it further. “Believe me, ferret, an eye should be the least thing you’re worried about me taking.”

Draco scowled and rose to his full height, pleased to see that he still had an inch or two on the relatively diminutive Potter Heir. “I was sincere in my previous advances,” the proud young man explained, graciously ignoring the threat to his person. “I truly want an alliance with you.”

“Go to Dumbledore then, and leave me in peace,” the other boy snapped. “I want nothing to do with you or your smarmy family, Malfoy. Get that through your thick head. You’ve been nothing but trouble to me since the day we met in Madam Malkin’s.”

He turned to leave, but Draco grabbed his arm again and spun him ‘round. “Do you think I’m stupid, Potter?” he snarled, barely remembering to keep his voice low. “Dumbledore is a manipulator on par with the Dark Lord himself! I will _not_ allow myself or my family to be used any more than necessary. You of all people should understand that.”

The other boy only glared, but could apparently not offer a retort to that. 

“Now listen,” Draco continued, pressing his momentary advantage. “I have received a communiqué from my mother warning me that the Dark Lord is sending something to Hogwarts tonight—something he will use to stop _you_. She told me to steer clear of it—to stay inside tonight and do nothing. I have the letter here in my pocket if you do not believe me.” He pressed the palm of his right hand over his House badge, behind which, Harry knew, all Hogwarts’ robes had a pocket mended on the inside.

He pulled his arm away from Malfoy again. “I believe you. About the letter, at least. So why aren’t you taking her advice and hiding under a rock like a good little viper?” he sneered. 

Draco blinked, startled by the venom in his voice. “Because there is a Gryffindor involved in the plot. There is a ‘viper,’” he threw the word back at him, “in Gryffindor House.”

Harry stiffened and he drew in a sharp breath, but he said nothing. 

“This is your proof, Potter,” the blond said. He made no effort to conceal his bitterness. “I will give you a traitor, and you will help me. I do not like you,” he added, frustrated by his own bluntness. “I do not want some grand and sweeping friendship like you have with the Weasel and the Mudblood. I will not be your ‘mate’ or pal around with you at Hogsmeade, and we will not exchange letters or Quidditch cloaks. I only want to spare my family any more torture at the hands of _Our Lord_.”

‘Our Lord’ was the only thing Harry had ever heard Draco say with more contempt and anger than he put into the word ‘Potter.’ It wasn’t said—it was spat out like a vile-tasting potion. The Gryffindor Seeker could almost feel it splash against his skin, burning like acid. 

Green eyes narrowed. “Who is it? The traitor?”

“I don’t know. Mother only said that the Dark Lord had spoken several times of an informant in your House. She said that he’s been using the informant to watch you all term.”

“So what makes you think that this mystery person will be down there?” Harry snapped.

“One of my Housemates and this person cut a hole in the Wards—”

“Hogwarts’ Wards are impenetrable.”

“ _Nothing_ is impenetrable, Potter!” Draco snarled, eyes darting to the shadowed hall to makes sure they were still alone. “Think! What was Crouch always spouting: ‘ _Constant vigilance_?’ Merlin’s blood, what do you think he was talking about? _Never_ let your guard down—ever! Now, a Seventh Year and this informant punctured the Wards to smuggle something in. A mirror of some sort. If it was you—if you had been the one to go through all the trouble of piercing the Wards—wouldn’t you want to see what it was all for? Wouldn’t you want to _make sure_ that everything went right. You’re a Gryffindor. What would you do?”

Harry’s eyes darkened. “I’d tag along, whether I was invited or not.”

“So what do you think our informant’s doing right now? And even if they’re not,” the taller teen pressed, “I’m offering you _Death Eaters_ , Potter. And a Slytherin to boot.”

The jagged scar on Harry’s forehead wrinkled and deepened as a frown contorted his brow in thought. “When is this meeting again, Malfoy?”

Draco smirked, the expression disturbingly reminiscent of Lucius. He reached in his robes and removed his pocket watch, flipping it open with an easy one-handed motion. The minute hand slid onto the nine with a soft click. His eyes flickered back to Potter’s. “Fifteen minutes from now.”

A muscle in the other boy’s cheek twitched as he clenched his jaw. “ _Where?_ ”

“The South field. On the far end of the Wards near the Forbidden Forrest.”

Harry grabbed the rival Seeker’s wrist and spun around sharply, tugging the Malfoy heir after him. “Come on.”

“Wait! We can’t just go barging in like this. Don’t you have that cloak or something that—”

The brunet’s grip tightened painfully. “It was confiscated.” He looked back at the other boy as he dragged him down the hallway. “There is such a thing as stealth, Malfoy. Use it.”

“Then let me go, so I _can_ use it! It won’t do either of us any good if Filch and his fleabag catch us.”

Harry observed the struggling blond for a moment before releasing him with a dark frown. “If you’re having me on, Malfoy, or trying to lure me into some sort of trap, so help me—”

“Trust me, Potter,” Draco snapped haughtily as he fixed the wrinkled cuff of his robe. “ _I’m_ the one with everything to lose here.”

Harry continued scowling, but said nothing and simply hurried after his yearmate.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


It is just after nine o’clock before I finish all the paperwork set before me. All the while, my father sits across his desk and glares at me from amongst his towers of junk. We do not speak.

My discomfort has moved beyond anything that I can pinpoint about being in this house. It is a lingering sense of unease. The feeling one gets from knowing a Grim is near, but not being able to see it. There is a curious sensation hovering around my Dark Mark—not pain, but nothing comforting either. I regret leaving Hogwarts today and find myself willing the time to pass more quickly so I can leave this wretched place, though some strange reluctance keeps me in my seat.

 _I should return to Hogwarts._ There is a greater urgency to the thought than there was an hour ago. Or even a moment ago. _I should return_.

I have the strangest idea that Harry Potter is going to die without me there and I want to be there. I don’t want him to die thinking I hate him. 

Congratulations, Albus; you’ve turned me into a hypochondriac. 

In the corner there is a curious clicking noise—my father’s pet reminding me of its presence. My hand twitches all too readily towards my wand and I firmly grip the arm of the chair and resolve to keep my mind on the accords before me.

I should return to Hogwarts.

After the clock has struck nine times and the candle flames have been forced to leap higher than natural to enhance the light, I stack the scrolls together and then snap them shut before sliding the documents back into their casing. He watches me resentfully as I hand him the case. I say nothing and he growls, choking off into another painful bout of coughing, before rummaging through the mess on his desk once more. No doubt looking for the Snape Family Seal so that he can send the documents to Gringotts where they belong.

“You’ve been using yourself in your experiments, haven’t you?”

He looks up at me sharply before looking away again, still searching. “What is it to you?” he growls, thick lips twitching heavily.

My eyes narrow and I find that I have no way to answer the question. Simple curiosity, I suppose. My father is barely seventy—a ridiculously young age for a wizard to die. But what other explanation can account for his current condition and vulgar appearance? There’s something deeply satisfying to know that the only thing he ever cared for in his life—his work—is the cause of his painful decay. Poetic justice, really. 

How desperately he must have scrambled to reverse the damage to his body when he realized what was happening to him . . . And how bitterly disappointed he must have been to know that he failed. As usual. No wonder he waited until the last minute to call me here. He must have prayed for a miracle. That he received none is more gratifying than any punishment I ever imagined for him as a child. I take in his fragile and emaciated frame and imagine him writhing under my wand beneath the Cruciatus Curse, screaming out his last breath. I take less satisfaction in the image than I normally would have. What would be the point? He is already dead. 

Really, does it matter to me at all what he’s been doing? I merely want the documents sent so that I can leave this place and be done with him. My quarters are still not fully restored after last weekend’s . . . unpleasantness . . . and tomorrow I am to resume Occlumency with the boy once more.

I shudder at the thought. Quick and painful, that is how it will be. A rush into his mind past whatever flimsy barriers Albus has taught him to construct, and he will be more than happy to flee my office and leave me in peace. Just like last year. Just like things are _supposed_ to be. He will remember what I am and how much he hates me and that I really mean nothing to him beyond the irritation of a biting fly, and he will leave. There is a sudden constriction in my chest, as though a great hand is pressing down on me, stifling my breathing, and I focus on my father’s spidery fingers.

He will leave me.

Everything will be as it should be then. Before evenings by the lake, midnight teas, flattened, hard curves that fit into the palm of my hand, kisses that were not mine to take, and manipulative old men who foster monstrosities. 

And I—fool that I am—desperately wish that I didn’t have to turn back the clock. Wish for something that I cannot have.

What has this boy done to me?

Bile rises in my throat and I look away from those awful hands, an unaccountable ache settling in the crook of my left arm like a painful rebuke. How could I have forgotten this—what I am?

The dread rises full force, and it is an effort not to surge to my feet and leave this place. The walls are too close and too crowded and I just know that that old spider is in its hole cleaning its fangs. 

No. 

Don’t think of that. 

Don’t think of it. Think of . . . think of . . . Green Eyes. And small, reddened hands. A bitten lip and a mouth that tastes like butterscotch. Heat and warmth.

I should not be here. I should return to Hogwarts. I clutch my arm tighter.

Black eyes pierce me from across the desk and Father waves a bar of sealing wax towards me to get my attention. “What are you looking all moony about?” he rasps. 

I stared at him fixedly, a slow sneer twisting my lips, and allow the silence to be my answer. Trembling, his left hand plucks a lit candle off the corner of his desk and holds it over the scroll sheath. His right hand, also palsied, holds the bar of wax over the flame and the emerald green magical sealant melts and drips with runny thickness onto the casing. He moves with surprising agility then, dropping the still-soft wax and impressing the Snape Family Seal to the cooling sealant, leaving behind the neatly cut lines of the Uroboros, book, and rapiers. I look away as he casts a few simple binding charms on the bundle, bored with this and irritated by the treacherous nature of my thoughts.

Another twinge goes through my arm, and this time I cannot resist gripping at the area of irritation: my Dark Mark. I squeeze the flesh hard as the twinge grows and an unpleasant sense of dread washes over me. This is not a summons—the feel of _that_ pain is unmistakable. But this is most definitely the work of my Master’s magic. I squeeze until the bite of my nails presses through my robes, the discomfort grounding me in the midst of what feel strangely like panic and leaving the promise of bruises behind.

I look back up to find my father’s yellowed eyes staring at me. No . . . staring at where I’m clutching my arm. I hesitate for a moment, vacillating between moving my hand and holding my ground. In the end, I hold my ground and meet his gaze challengingly. He sneers and tosses the scroll sheath on the table in front of me. 

“Spell it!”

I wait a moment, just long enough to be insolent and let him know that my actions have little to do with his orders, and then remove my wand to add my own magical signature to the charms protecting the scrolls. My spells are much stronger than my father’s and it take me only a moment to add them. He glares at me hatefully as my magic envelops his, locking the scroll with spells that he would never be powerful enough to cast.

Truly, sometimes the best revenge really is living well.

With a murmured ‘ _Windargardium Leveosa_ ,’ I send the scrolls back to him. He snatches it out of the air with a fierce growl, black lips pulled tight over yellowed teeth as he snarls.

An owl swoops in then through the open window. Just a plain, ordinary, unedited owl, not one of my father’s pets. It snatches the scroll from his hand and wheels around out the window again, as though it knew its fate had it stayed any longer. This place is surely poison, seeping out of the old man before me and staining the very ground beneath us. I sit up a bit straighter and cross my legs, resting my left ankle on my right knee, as though the air around me were contaminated by him. Perhaps it is. I shift my robes over my raised knee so that they fall a bit more naturally.

Father watches me with contempt. “Watch it, boy. Your ponce is showing,” he snaps at me nastily.

My lips twist thinly and I smooth the thick material of my robes again, purposely transparent as I enjoy the feel of the soft fabric under my fingers. “Careful, Father.” I smile my own nasty smile. “Your French is showing.” 

His French heritage, his mother’s legacy, has always been an intensely sore point for him, and he forbade me to learn the language as a child. Of course, that didn’t stop Mother from teaching it to me on the sly—an offense for which she paid heavily.

He curses and hurls the Seal at me with a hiss that would have done any parselmouth proud. “ _Out!_ Out with you now! Out of my house!” 

I stand, slow and unhurried. I will not be intimidated by this man, nor will I be needlessly panicked over the pain in my arm. Never mind the fact that I would tear off my skin right now if I thought it could remove the brand’s burning.

I need to return to Hogwarts. Now.

And yet, I linger.

Why did I come to this place? What does this house mean to me? This man? These creatures? That frozen painting and the spider in the corner? What does any of this mean? I should not be here. 

It is time to leave.

Father also stands, long thin hands grasping for something else to throw at me. “Whore’s son!” he screeches. “Out!” 

He hobbles around the desk, gripping at the walls and anything else on hand to get at me, and it is almost comical to see this broken bit of oily, drapery-clad leather lurching towards me like a drunken marionette. I smoothly glide back a step and he pushes off the wall with a venomous hiss. He throws the candle holder at me and I neatly sidestep it. The battered silver hits a shelf, knocking loose a book and sending the contents of the entire shelf tumbling after it to the ground. 

“Surely you should sit and rest, Father,” I chide in a too-smooth voice. “A man in your condition . . .”

“You’re your mother’s work!” he half-shrieks at me, staggering into the center of the room without support. A clump of his hair slides down off the side of his skull with an unnaturally smooth motion and lands on the floor. My lip curls in disgust and I turn my back on him. I have had enough of this place. It is time to go.

Suddenly, he gasps and falls to his knees and I turn. Strangely enough, all I feel is a perverse sense of pleasure in watching him gasp and choke on the ground. I understand now why I came; I came home to watch him die.

“Severus . . .” One bony claw of a hand extends towards me imploringly and I take a small, careful step backwards. The hem of my robes sway and whisper just out of reach of his fingertips. I have no time for this. 

I take another step backwards and the old man coughs and hacks horribly. Blood stains his purple lips and he reaches out once again, mouthing my name in obvious pain. The moonlight hits the window at just the right angle and the air turns a starling white, and then an almost crimson color as it streams through the tinted panels—the same color as the blood staining the floor. 

My gaze lingers a moment longer, but I know I have to leave. . . . I know I _have to leave_.

“Sev—”

“Goodbye, Aigris Snape.” 

I turn sharply on my heel as he chokes on his own blood behind me, but then I pause at the door. I turn my head, taking in my mother’s frozen sobbing, my father gasping in pain, and the moonlight flooding the room. I point my wand at the spider web in the corner.

“ _Letum_.”

The spider immediately drops out of its hole in the wall, long legs spasming as the spell destroys its internal organs, burning through its body from the inside out. It is not _Eptum_ , but it is beautifully effective. And right in my father’s line of vision. 

I turn and pull open the heavy doors, ignoring the curses my father sends at me. The clock in the entrance hall reads 9:32 now. I’ve tarried here for far too long, and the throbbing in my arm now feels like a low level burn. 

I will send a House Elf later to deal with the bodies and round up my father’s pets. But now I _need to go_. Now. 

The doors boom shut behind me and I feel the wards of the house shift, accepting me. He is dead then. But I feel nothing, aware only of the time, and, Dark Mark burning, hurry back home.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


Albus Dumbledore was a very old man. He was also a very tired man. He had—quite literally—the weight of the entire world resting on his thin 168-year-old shoulders, and was armed with nothing more than a human heart. Human hearts were not meant to bear the weight of the world, no matter how remarkable the man in which they beat. And they most certainly were not meant to carry the grief that he carried. Grief that tore at him, bent his shoulders, and dimmed his eyes when no one was looking.

Most wizards did not live beyond 200. Some reached 250 if they were lucky. 300 was an accomplishment. At 168, Albus knew he was getting old and the time to pass the torch was rapidly coming. He knew that—even if he survived this war—he did not have long in the world. Really, in comparison with the century and a half behind him, the thirty years a head of him weren’t a very long time at all. Long enough to see his children grow up, settle down, and live as happily as fate allowed. Which, when one really looked closely at the situation, that was all he genuinely wanted. No man, after all, asks for the roles history thrusts upon them—they merely have to make do with what they are given.

Unfortunately, making do was very difficult, and very tiring, which was why at 10:00 on November 5th Albus Dumbledore was slumped over his desk, head comfortably resting on a closed tin of lemon drops, snoring softly. Papers were scattered everywhere and a scroll rolled towards his rather impressive nose whenever he inhaled and then rolled away again when he exhaled. A smudge of ink stained his right cheek and a merry fire crackled in the hearth. Fawkes, who had finally had the decency to just Burn and be done with it, was sleeping soundly in the little pile of ash that would serve as his nest until his chick down molted and real feathers took their place. Really, it was a terribly homey scene. The only thing missing was a slightly too-short boy with messy hair and small hands sleeping by the fire, curled up with a book of fairy tales.

The missing piece of the picturesque scene was, in fact, not even in the castle any more. Something that would have sent Albus—had he been awake—into fits of anxiety. But, as it was, he was not awake, and therefore had no idea that two of the hands on his clock (one newly added) had the words ‘ _mortal peril_ ’ scrawled up their arms in hurried, glowing scarlet ink. Nor did he know that a third hand that read ‘ _slowly removing head from arse_ ’ in gold print was gradually moving towards the other two.

In fact, Albus Dumbledore was rather dead to the world, and would most likely remain so for quite a bit, because he had accidentally eaten his Dreamless Sleep lemon drops instead of his Pepper Up lemon drops—an act that, while unfortunate, was also forgivable. After all, at the root of things, Albus Dumbledore really was a very old man, and everyone is entitled to a mistake or two.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations and Notes:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis, et tibi Pater: quia peccavi nimis cogitatione verbo, et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Joannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te Pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum Nostrum. - _I confess to Almighty God, to Blessed Mary ever Virgin, to Blessed Michael the Archangel, to Blessed John the Baptist, to the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, to all the angels and saints, and to you my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, deed. Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault, and I ask Blessed Mary ever Virgin, Blessed Michael the Archangel, Blessed John the Baptist, the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, all the Angels and Saints, and you my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God._
> 
>  **Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Joannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te Pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum Nostrum.** \- _I ask Blessed Mary ever Virgin, Blessed Michael the Archangel, Blessed John the Baptist, the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, all the Angels and Saints, and you my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God._
> 
>  _Tegenaria agrestis_ \- is a member of the Hobo Spider family. The Hobo Spider nasty little hairy thing in an arachnid group referred to as ‘European Household Spiders,’ and can also be found England, Ireland, Wales, Scotland, most of western Europe, and most of North America. The ugly little bastards bite and, because they’re venomous, can pack quite a wallop (so as you can imagine, Severus is not fond of his father’s giant pet spider). For more information on Hobo Spiders and some images that will give arachnophobic people nightmares for weeks, go here: [http : / / www. hobospider. org / european. html ]
> 
>  **Uroboros** ( _Ouroboros_ ) – The “tail-devourer;” the serpent biting its own tail. Originally it appeared in Egypt during 16th century BC, from which it migrated to Greek (where it was called ‘ _Aion_ ’), Phoenician, Norse (where it was called ‘ _Jörmungandr_ ’), and Hindi mythology. The Uroboros is the World Serpent. It represents perfection; completion; the full circle of existence uninterrupted; and the continuing cycles of life and death, end and completion, day and night, and end and beginning, amongst other things. In Thoth tarot, it is an element of the Magus I and an incarnation of the Universe XXI. In alchemy the symbol is linked to the god Hermes (Mercury) and is the purifying glyph. For the purposes of this story, I’m referencing the serpent incarnation of the Uroboros that appears as a single, perfect circle. The Uroboros forms the outer circle of the Snape Family Seal, in the center of which is a large open book in front of two crossed rapiers.
> 
>   
> **  
> *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
> **  
> 


	10. Six III: The Ransom of Agamemnon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_  
> Where the Heart Moves the Stone_**  
>  \- Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc -  
> \- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
> 10.7.2003  
>  **  
> *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
> **
> 
> Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ was written by T.S. Elliot. I am not profiting from this.  
>  ** _Warnings:_** SS/HP slash, violence,  & language.
> 
>  **Kudos and thanks** must got to my beta reader _LadyDeathFarie_ and her whiplash-inducing turnover time. All remaining errors are my own.
> 
> A **note** on this chapter: Yes, it happened. It was planned for months. I apologize; I had a good deal of difficulty writing this one. Thank you all for your patience.
> 
> Flames are not welcome, but anything else will be happily accepted and garner Chocolate Frogs. So please review.

****

  


***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**~ Chapter Six III ~  
The Ransom of Agamemnon**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

“For thus saith the Lord, Thy bruise is incurable, and thy wound is grievous.  
There is none to plead thy cause, that thou mayest be bound up: thou hast no healing medicines.  
All thy lovers have forgotten thee; they seek thee not; for I have wounded thee with the wound of an enemy,  
with the chastisement of a cruel one, for the multitude of thine iniquity; because thy sins were increased.  
Why criest thou for thine affliction? thy sorrow is incurable for the multitude of thine iniquity:  
because thy sins were increased, I have done these things unto thee.”  
\- Jeremiah 30: 12-15

  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**

  


_H_ arry paused as he and Draco crept along the edge of the castle, gesturing impatiently for the other to be still. A lithe shadow, a short girl with long black hair, detached itself from the castle wall roughly twenty yards ahead of them and darted away at a run, holding up her robes so that she didn’t trip over them. Harry’s eyes narrowed as he watched her progress across the lawn. He knew her: a short, doe-eyed First Year. Pretty, but unremarkable. Like the other First Years, she stared at him a lot, so he in turn avoided her.

“Is that her?” he hissed to the boy behind him.

Draco put hand on Harry’s shoulder to keep his balance and leaned forward just in time to see the girl dash into another clutch of shadows. “Well, it’s not a Slytherin,” the blond snarked, still peering into the darkness. He blinked against the chill night air. “I can’t see a thing.”

Harry stepped away from the shadows, wand drawn, and Draco squeaked and stumbled as his support vanished. 

“Hush, Malfoy!” the smaller Seeker hissed in irritation. He cast an uncertain look around back towards the castle. An unnerving sensation similar to a clutch of snakes writhing inside him sent shivers up and down his spine. Then, with a surprising amount of stealth, the smaller teen edged along the castle wall from shadow to shadow until he was almost out of sight. 

Draco bit the inside of his cheek in frustration and seriously considered just leaving Potter out there to fend for himself . . . But that would be counter-productive. With a huff of resignation, the Malfoy heir followed the green-eyed brunet, wincing every time an owl hooted or a leaf crackled. He wished he could be as silent as Potter, but he couldn’t seem to watch his steps the way the other boy did. Perhaps sneaking around the castle at all hours of night paid off after all . . .

Harry paused at the edge of the south wall of the castle, scowling into the night. The waning moon was large and heavy in its ascension and cast bright silver light everywhere, flooding the field that stood between them and the border of the Wards. The field itself was the large swell of a hill, with a shallow incline on their side and a steep decline on the side of the Wards. Though they could not be seen over the rise of the hill to the people Draco knew to be down there, they could not cross the field undetected by anyone passing by. 

The blond caught up to Harry with a huff that sent a barely visible puff of steam into the air. “Where did she go?”

Potter was crouched down near the wall, his dark hair and robes blending easily into the shadows. He did not look up as he surveyed the hill with a frown. “She ran across there.” He pointed at the hill. “Do you think we can cross?”

“Not without standing out like blood on snow,” Draco muttered unhappily. He reached into his robes and fumbled for his watch for a moment before locating the heirloom. It popped open with a soft click. “It’s 10:05. If we’re going to go, we need to hurry.”

Potter nodded, but didn’t move. “How did they break the Wards?”

“My mother said it was an Ostium sphere.”

Green eyes stared blankly at him and the blond sneered. “An Ostium sphere, Potter. It’s a magical artifact—small, about the size of a child’s fist, golden when inactive and then invisible when active. You stick it into a magical field—like Wards, for instance—and it absorbs and reflects back the energy of that field. The reflected energy works like two magnets with the same polarization. The field reflected pushes against the Wards and causes a hole. The Wards don’t pick up on a breach because the Ostium sphere uses their own energy, so the magic is never disrupted or discontinued. It’s brilliant, really, but they’re very rare. Only thirty or so were ever made and that was hundreds of years ago. No one knows quite how to duplicate them.”

Potter stood to his full height and frowned up at Draco. “So how did your friend get one?”

“The Dark Lord, I guess. How should I know? Look, an Ostium sphere can only be planted from the inside of the Wards, and only someone of ‘true, valiant purpose’—whatever the hell that is—can even sense the Wards accurately enough to find them. We all feel an imprecise fuzzy feeling that lets us know when we’re in the vicinity of the Wards from the sheer amount of power they put out, but only someone with an unselfish purpose and a real need can find their exact perimeter. Some trick of the Founders’, I suspect.”

“So then you don’t really know that she betrayed us,” Potter said sharply. “She didn’t mean any harm.”

Draco stared. “ _That’s_ what your worried about? Your precious Gryffindor? The Dark Lord himself could very well be standing a hundred yards away with an army at his back, but all you can think of is your damn Gryffindor? Potter, _think!_. She _cut a hole in the Wards of Hogwarts_. Regardless of their intent, a person goes to Azkaban for that. She breached Hogwarts security and is letting in Death Eaters _as we bloody speak_ , and _you_ just want to keep her out of trouble.”

Harry frowned and his eyes hardened, but he remained silent. 

Draco stared at him for a moment longer before his lips twisted in disgust. “Well, stay here then, if that will make you happy. I’m going to see what’s going on down there.”

He pulled away from castle wall and set across the field at a run, leaving Harry behind him. The other teen hissed in protest and tried to grab hold of him, but Draco easily slipped away from the grasp. When he reached the top of the hill, he threw himself flat on his belly and began to crawl across the grass, careful to stay low. His blond hair kept falling irritatingly into his eyes and he scowled. A second later, there was a grunt at his side as Potter landed heavily on the ground next to him. 

Draco’s hand snaked out and gripped the other boy’s shoulder, halting him, and startlingly green eyes turned to towards him as Potter frowned at the familiarity. Draco squeezed the other boy’s shoulder hard, as though attempting to press the importance of his words into him. “Listen, Potter,” he hissed in a whisper. “We just go and look and then we get some teachers. Or even that oaf Hagrid. With two witnesses and some Veritaserum, there’ll be no mistaking what we saw, okay? But we only _watch_. I’ve no desire to be the latest of your victims of time and circumstance, Potter.”

Those green eyes narrowed and seemed to flare dangerously for a moment, but then the slight Potter heir nodded. “Fine. We just watch.”

Draco still didn’t let go. “And if it happens like I said it would, you owe me, Potter, and you’ll help me protect my family. You promise me here and now that you’ll help me.” 

Potter’s lips pressed into a thin, unhappy line and for a moment he looked like he wanted to argue. Then he nodded with obvious reluctance. “I’ll owe you,” he agreed, still looking unhappy. 

He stuck out his hand for an awkward handshake and Draco quickly accepted. Something seemed to uncoil in him, relaxing as he accepted that small hand in his own.

“Let’s go then,” he murmured, suddenly feeling less tense. At his side Potter nodded and the two boys crawled up the hill to see what was going on below them.

****

  


*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


Minerva McGonagall blew lightly on the surface of her tea, sending small tendrils of steam over the lip of the cup. Hagrid shifted uncomfortably in his enlarged chair for a moment before reaching down to lift up his own teacup. The wooden frame of the seat creaked alarmingly with the motion and Minerva made a mental note to properly outfit the staffroom with Hagrid-sized things when she did the budget next term. She really couldn’t expect the half-giant to be comfortable otherwise. As it was, the tiny porcelain teacup looked ludicrous in his enormous grip, but he was surprisingly gentle with the cup as he brought it to his lips. The entire contents were gone in one swallow, of course, but the stern Transfiguration professor only smiled and offered her old friend another cup.

Hagrid beamed. “Thank ye!”

Minerva poured and settled back in her chair as the half giant added four sugar cubes to the brew. “I don’t know how you can drink it that sweet,” she chided gently, unable to fully keep the censure out of her voice. 

Hagrid grinned again. “Well, tha’s the way it’s best,” he said, as though this was the most obvious thing in the world. “Will Mr. Flitwick gonna be joinin’ us tonight?”

Despite having done this for most of the term thus far, Hagrid still managed to look out of place in the staffroom when they met for tea once a week. It was, of course, part of Albus’s idea that the Professors all meet once a week in a social setting to help them work better together and get to know the more reclusive staff members like Hagrid, Trelawney, and Snape (to name just a few of Hogwarts’ eccentrics) but Minerva could help but think that the man looked terribly unhappy at the start of every meeting. Forcing Rubeus Hagrid to sit still and drink tea was like putting a cat on a leash. It simply wasn’t done. Though, if last week had taught them anything, it was most definitely that no one was an island unto themselves—at least, not at Hogwarts.

Professor Sinistra entered in a whirlwind of finely cut robes and ungraded parchments before Minerva could reply, closely followed by Professor Kettleburn. The cold, severe beauty of the Astronomy professor sharply offset Kettleburn’s bedraggled appearance as the queenly young woman stalked over to the table. She sat down next to Hagrid and offered him a tight, narrow smile, making the C.M.C. professor look even more out of place. Hagrid, knowing that the smile was as welcoming as the dark-haired woman ever got, beamed in response and Sinistra’s smile widened just a bit. Kettleburn slumped into a chair next to Minerva and fanned himself with a pudgy hand. 

“I don’t know how Severus deals with those monsters day in and day out,” the rotund professor whined in a strikingly high-pitched voice. “Three explosions before eleven o’clock today. _Three!_ ” he squeaked in protest. “How does he bear it? I only had two classes! And those horrid Sixth Years! Paper cranes in the Calming Potion! Calming Potion on the ceiling! Ceiling in the cauldrons!” 

At the mention of the Potions Master, Minerva looked significantly less pleased than before as she handed out more tea. “Well, the man always did keep a firm hand on his classes.” The compliment was grudging at best. 

Sinistra’s velvety eyes turned to Minerva and her lips tilted towards a smile that looked considerably less friendly than the one Hagrid had received. Though she had nothing against the deputy Headmistress per se, she had no patience for House rivalries, as they only interfered in the students’ educations and added to the already complex politics of Hogwarts. “Professor Snape will not be joining us this evening. I hear that he’s away on family business.” Like her, the Astronomy teacher’s voice was sensual and dark. 

The mention of Snape and family together seemed to perk everyone’s interest considerably, but Sinistra continued before anyone could comment. “Nor will Filius or Professor Sprout. Apparently, the Mandrakes are teething . . . and Mr. Longbottom and Mr. Creevey the younger turned Filius green and pink this evening before dinner. Vector and Poppy should be down shortly . . . provided Ms. Granger latest academic efforts don’t keep Vector in the Library all night researching theorems again.”

“Now, now then,” Hagrid rumbled, ever the peace maker. “She’s jus’ got a bit o’ spirit, tha’s all.”

Sinistra laughed quietly. “The girl is a menace. She should come with a warning label: _not for daily use or essay assignments_. Thank Circe Potter and Weasley keep her in line. She’ll be a formidable witch when she grows out of it, though—one of the best in her generation. If that one doesn’t make Head Girl, I’ll eat my telescope.”

Minerva could barely keep from preening at hearing the praise the tightlipped Sinistra heaped on her prefect. 

Kettleburn sniffled sadly. “Gryffindors everywhere!” He was obviously still distracted by his day as substitute Potions Professor. 

Sinistra shot him a contemptuous glance and sniffed. 

The door to the staffroom burst open again and Professor Whistlemeel, the newest in a long line of DADA teachers, tumbled into the room. Literally. The tiny blond woman picked herself up as though nothing untowards had happened and made her way to the table to sit between Kettleburn and Minerva. That she managed to do this without tripping over her own two feet was an accomplishment in and of itself. The four foot, six inches tall professor looked like a light gust would send her flying and her disturbingly baby-doll-like face seemed fixed in an expression of perpetual surprise. Enormous blue eyes blinked at Hagrid, apparently startled to find him still employed.

Why the woman had come to teach here was anyone’s guess. She seemed to think that half the staff should be fired, Hagrid routinely ground up the children’s bones to make his bread, Harry Potter was out to kill her, Professors Snape and Sinistra were vampires who wanted to convert her, Sirius Black’s ghost haunted her office, Professor Trelawney was the modern Cassandra, and Professor Dumbledore was plotting for global domination. Her notorious clumsiness she attributed to a cruel hex sent at her in subterfuge by Mad Eye Moody in an attempt to thwart her Auror career. The fact that she had never had an Auror career and Mad Eye had never met her did not seem to deter her in the least.

At first, the staff had found this all rather amusing. After all, Hogwarts was an epicenter for certain political events and a bulwark against Voldemort. Their students literally went on to shape the fate of the world—especially with the Potter-Malfoy-Weasley class coming through: scions of three incredibly important Wizarding Families. It was not uncommon for outlandish rumors to circulate among the populace about such important places. That the professors were so vital in molding these young minds only served to make the rumors about them all the more ridiculous.

Everyone had assumed, perhaps a bit too optimistically, that once Whistlemeel had settled in, she would realize that there was nothing remotely true about those rumors. They’d been wrong. Even more bizarre though, was the fact that Whistlemeel would actually accuse the staff of these things to their respective faces and then seemingly forget that she’d done it. If Potter covered his scar with that eternally rebellious fringe of hair of his, she couldn’t even identify the boy, and just _how_ she managed to consistently confuse Trelawney and Sinistra was practically a magic all its own. 

The tiny little blond accepted her teacup from Minerva graciously and smiled, the expression making her look rather vapid. “I _love_ Black Currant!” Even her voice sounded doll-like.

The deputy Headmistress looked away before she was overcome with urge to hex the girl. Really, if the woman hadn’t been at least halfway competent at Defense, she’d have pushed Albus to remove the chit at the end of September. Of course, the fact that she couldn’t tell one student from another if they all had their names stamped on their foreheads no doubt had a good deal to do with her even handedness in class. She didn’t pay enough attention to her students to know who they were. Really, the whole class could probably just walk out in the middle of a lesson, and she wouldn’t notice at all. 

Sinistra, who admittedly took some rather perverse glee in encouraging her fellow Professor’s delusions, leaned forward with a predatory glint in her eye and brought her teacup up to her ruby red lips. Her eyes shone darkly. “Yes . . .” the woman purred seductively. Her tongue darted out and flicked a tiny drop of tea off the lips of her cup before vanishing back into her mouth. “I’ve always found it to have a . . . bold . . . sweet flavor.”

Whistlemeel blanched. Her teacup was returned to her saucer with a heavy click. Minerva took a sip of her own tea to hide her smile.

The wispy little blond smiled tremulously and stood, almost tripping over her own robes in the process. “I . . . ah . . . I had better check on those two love birds I saw in the Library hall earlier.”

Kettleburn looked up sharply, suddenly forgetting his Potions woes. “I beg your pardon? You left two students alone in the hall to have a snog?”

Apparently completely forgetting the grave danger presented by Sinistra the Vampire, Whistlemeel turned to blink owlishly at the round little Professor. “Yes. Isn’t young love romantic? And they looked so dashing—that dark-haired, round eyed Gryffindor pulled so close to that pretty blond Slytherin.” She gave the sigh of someone who has just entered chocolate bliss. “Forbidden romance. Pity they were both boys. But even that can have its moments.”

The DADA professor settled back in her seat and picked up her tea again, the dreamy look still in her eyes. Sinistra eyed the woman with blatant distaste. 

Kettleburn stared at her in disbelief. “Well, you’re not just going to leave them there to have at it, are you?”

“Mmmmm?” Wide blue eyes turned back to him. “Why wouldn’t I? They were terribly pretty.”

By now, Hagrid was blushing bright red and Minerva’s tea was all but forgotten.

“Besides,” Whistlemeel continued, undeterred, “I want to finish my tea.”

Sinistra narrowed her eyes again before her lush mouth settled into a viper-like smirk. She leaned forward once more and snaked out a fine-boned alabaster hand to touch Whistlemeel. “Actually, I think I’m ready for something with a bit more _body_ to it . . .”

The small professor shot out of her seat as though she’d been bitten, big eyes impossibly larger. “I really should check on them, though!” she squeaked before fleeing towards the door, almost knocking down Professor Vector as she scrambled past her. 

The tall Arithmacy professor stared after the retreating figure with vague curiosity before turning back to the group at the table. Minerva righted Whistlemeel’s chair with a flick of her wand and offered it to Vector as the gray, grave-looking woman came over to them. “Do I even want to know?” she asked as she sat down next to the Transfiguration Professor. 

“Tha’ was just uncalled for,” Hagrid said with a half hearted frown at his comparatively tiny companion. The censure did not, however, disguise the almost Dumbledore-like twinkle in his eyes.

Minerva nodded firmly to Sinistra and poured Vector a cup of tea. “Good show, my dear.”

Hagrid released a big booming laugh, Kettleburn snickered in a way that was most un-Hufflepuff (his House at school), and even Sinistra smiled, looking almost disturbingly sated. Smiling her own satisfied smile, Minerva pushed herself to her feet with a sigh and barely covered a wince as she felt her knee buckle beneath her. She picked up her cane with a heavy sigh and gingerly set her weight on the support, hating this reminder of the odious Umbridge woman and the prolonged debacle that was the previous school year. 

“I had better go make sure the silly chit doesn’t break her neck headed down there.” She carefully straightened her witch hat on her head with her free hand before turning back to the table. “If Binns comes, do try to steer him away from Goblin rebellions tonight. If I have to listen to one more lecture on Urrgh the Decapitator or Soth the Spleen-Eater, I will find a way to bring that man back to life so I can kill him again.”

Kettleburn chortled and Vector smiled faintly. Hagrid eyed the prim Transfiguration professor for a moment, worried. “You want me ter come along, Professor?”

The half-giant always looked terribly miserable when he saw her with her cane. Though she knew that what she saw in his eyes was not pity, Minerva couldn’t help but feel stung whenever he looked at her like that. She forced a small smile. “I’ll be fine, Hagrid. Thank you, though.”

The huge man nodded a bit woefully and Sinistra offered him one of her tight, rare smiles again and gently touched his arm. “I heard you’ve been trying to get a hold of an infant Harpy.”

Vector choked on her tea.

Grateful for the distraction, Minerva turned and left the room to find the DADA Professor. Knowing her, the silly thing probably just ran off to her quarters and barricaded herself in—most likely with garlic and Holy Water, to boot.

The Deputy Headmistress’s heels clicked sharply on the castle stone, punctuated by the continual tap of her cane as she descended the hidden staircase that led to the teacher’s lounge. The stair let out in the main stair hall and one of the moving staircase obligingly shifted over to pick her up and carry her to an adjacent case. Holding onto the banister for balance, Minerva hummed off tune under her breath and tapped the steel bottom of her cane against the ground impatiently as the stairs finally ground to a halt.

“Professor! Professor! Guess what _I_ saw?”

Blue-grey eyes flickered over to Moaning Myrtle as the voyeuristic Hufflepuff ghost slid smoothly out of a wall at the foot of the stairs. Hard pressed to stifle her sigh, the Transfiguration professor set her mouth in a stern line. “Yes, Myrtle? What is it?”

The ghost did a little loop-de-loop in the air and giggled, her phantom eyes shining with barely repressed glee. Though Minerva had never really cared for Myrtle either in or out of school—she personally thought that death had driven the poor girl a bit batty—there was no denying that the spirit’s penchant for tattling saved the staff a good deal of trouble. Of course, that meant that one had to actually _listen_ to the attention-starved ghost—an activity that Minerva despised.

“Well, spit it out, girl,” she snapped gruffly when it became obvious that Myrtle wasn’t going to speak of her own volition. She walked past Myrtle and the ghost pursued her, still giggling and blushing silver.

“Oooooh, they’re going to be in _so_ much trouble!” she chortled in her sickeningly sweet voice. “But it serves them right—he promised he’d come visit my toilet and he hasn’t.” Ghostly eyes flashed. “He **_LIED_** to me!!” 

A chill went through Minerva as the spirit’s vaguely concealed nasty side bled into her voice with a snarl. It was probably for the best that Myrtle never reached adulthood. The girl had always had a vicious streak in her a mile wide. Minerva would have bet her catnip mouse that Myrtle would have gone Dark.

…Not that she _had_ a catnip mouse. Certainly not.

“Who lied to you?” the Professor prodded impatiently. This undoubtedly had something to do with whomever the ghost was attempting to get in trouble; she just had to be patient.

Myrtle floated along side her, briefly disappearing through a suit of armor as Minerva turned to corner into the Library hallway.

“Harry Potter, of course,” Myrtle replied, sounding as though this should have been obvious. 

Minerva sighed and resisted the urge to swipe at the ghost’s head with her cane. Albus had told Myrtle twice that Potter was not to be reported for roaming the Library hall after curfew and—

“That’s what he gets, though,” the ghost continued, sounding immensely pleased with her ability to get Potter into trouble, “for lying to me to play with that little blond snake. I told him—”

Minerva stopped, her cane tapping the ground with a solemn finality. _Blond snake?_

Palms sweating, the woman clutched at the head of her cane and leaned on the support a bit more than necessary. Her eyes looked distant. _“ . . . that dark-haired, round eyed Gryffindor pulled so close to that pretty blond Slytherin. Forbidden romance.”_

Minerva ground her teeth as the DADA’s words came back to her. Only _she_ would be brainless enough to leave Potter and Malfoy alone in a dark corridor after curfew. Was it really too much to hope that they could make it through just _one_ school year without the now usual intrigue or more Potter-related drama then necessary? The boy was a magnet for trouble, even when he wasn’t trying to be. _Especially_ when he wasn’t trying to be.

Unclenching her fist with a good deal of effort, the professor forced a deep breath out of her nose and turned back to Myrtle. The ghost was floating a few feet away, looking very put out at having been ignored. 

“Myrtle, where did you see them?” 

“Oh, they left the castle,” the child said, obviously bored now that they were no longer discussing her. “They were headed towards the Forbidden on the South end of the castle.”

What had initially been irritation turned to ice in the older woman’s stomach. Her eyes narrowed. “The Forest? They were headed towards the Forest?”

Playing around in the castle was one thing—every youngster felt the need to experiment (though she rather preferred that it be with the opposite gender). That it was with Malfoy was only the latest escapade in a long history of risky behavior on Potter’s part. For Draco, it was all too easy to believe his elitism was at work. But going out into the Forest was another thing _entirely_. Especially with the son of a Death Eater involved. Minerva didn’t trust Draco Malfoy as far as she could throw him, and she certainly didn’t trust Harry to have thought any of this through. That boy was the very image of low impulse control.

“Yes,” Myrtle gushed, looking positively wicked. “I was coming to get you when I saw them leave the castle.” She giggled again and hid her smile behind her hands. “Are they in loads of trouble?”

“Oh, yes,” Minerva said in a frosty voice. “ _Loads_ of trouble.” She focused on the ghost again. “Will you please go tell the Headmaster what has happened?”

Myrtle vacillated, obviously preparing to protest. Minerva felt the last of her patience evaporate and brandished her cane menacingly at the dead girl. “Don’t dawdle, girl! Hop to it!”

Myrtle fled with a squeak and Minerva strode down the moonlit hall alone, the staccato thumps of her heels and cane a condemnation. This never would have happened if Severus had been here prowling the corridors as was his wont. “When the cat’s away . . .”

Her voice reflected off the old stone and cast weird echoes up and down the hall. The silvery light reflected off her eyes and her features seemed to blur for a moment. Suddenly her body seemed to melt and ooze like candle wax as she shrunk and a moment later a large tabby cat with dark circular patterns around her eyes stood in the professor’s place. The cat immediately bounded off, moving much faster than her human form, despite her noticeably limp.

She was going to absolutely _throttle_ those boys when she got a hold of them. And then she was going to _throttle_ that twit Whistlemeel. And then she was going to give Albus a very pointed and long overdue piece of her mind. The House Cup was going to be a memory by the time tonight was over, but she didn’t care. She had had enough of simply sitting around, or always being a second too late when disaster struck. 

The stone was hard and cold beneath the pads of her feet as she rounded a corner. The castle seemed to sense her determination and doors flew silently open and closed as she ran.

No more playing around—not anymore. And no more allowing Slytherins to simply do as they please without consequences. Tonight the little snakes would remember why _no one_ messed with her cubs.

****

  


*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


Micah tapped his right heel in irritation and looked down at the wristwatch his mother had ordered from Paris for him last month. 10:08.

Just where the hell were they?

He had to get the Glass in past the Wards; that was the most important thing. As a student, the magic of Hogwarts gave him liberties that it would not allow any others except those on the grounds at the Headmaster’s sufferance. _He_ had to be the one to bring the artifact onto the grounds, not his father, else the magic inherent to the land and castle would reject it. That would be disastrous to the Dark Lord’s plans. It would be best if he could actually get the Glass _inside_ the castle somehow—less risky for the Glass—but maneuvering a magical item of the Glass’s size and power would be very difficult alone, and Hogwarts would most certainly not permit Death Eaters entry. 

He frowned in irritation—almost a pout, really—and kicked a small, loose stone through the hole in the Wards. Thank Merlin he’d had the good sense to weight the House badges down with stones before he’d returned to the castle this weekend, else the wind would have blown them away and then he’d never have been able to find the hole.

“Micah?”

The voice behind him startled the young man and he turned fast, wand drawn.

A petite slip of a girl standing close behind him cringed and shrunk back with a small shriek. “It’s me!”

Jade eyes blinked, startled. “Mary?” 

He crossed the small distance between them and grabbed her forearm roughly, jerking the First Year towards him. Her dark hair fell into her eyes as the boy shook her. “What are you doing? What the hell are you doing here?”

“I wanted to help!” she hissed back, offended. The youngest Creevey jerked out of his grasp. She rubbed her bruised forearms and glared at the older boy. “I wanted to talk to Harry, too! I’m a Gryffindor and I thought he might listen to me. He’s got to understand that Snape and Malfoy are no good for him—too much depends on him. When did you ask Harry to meet you here?”

“If you want to help, you silly bint, then go back to the castle!” The Slytherin glared at her with ill-concealed fury and clenched his fists at his sides. “You’re going to ruin everything. This isn’t a bloody picnic!”

Mary’s face twisted in hurt and stared up at the older boy, tears clinging delicately to her long lashes. “Micah—”

“Go!” He shoved her towards the castle and she stumbled, almost losing her balance. 

“But I want to help!”

“You can’t—”

Mary glared at him and marched towards the boy, forcing him back. “I’m doing this because I love him! Because he needs help! You even said so yourself. Now why won’t you let me help him?”

“Because we don’t need your help any—” The boy cut off abruptly, his jaw snapping shut with an audible click. He pressed his lips into a hard line and took a long step backwards until he was almost standing in the hole in the Wards.

The Gryffindor frowned in confusion. “What do you mean you don’t . . .” she trailed off suddenly as understanding blossomed. “Micah . . .?”

The boy reached out and grabbed hold of her, jerking the girl towards him as he stepped out beyond the Wards. Frozen, the girl let out a muffled shriek as she was effortlessly removed from the protection of Hogwarts. Micah spun her around so that he stood between her and Wards and pulled out his wand, pointing it at the diminutive Creevey with one smooth motion. He sighed heavily. “You’re so stupid.”

Mary’s eyes widened and she squeaked in terror as she stared down the length of Micah’s wand. 

The lithe Slytherin’s expression twisted in what might have been regret and he flicked his wrist. “ _Crucio._ ”

The First Year shrieked in agony and dropped to the ground in convulsions. Her neck snapped back as she writhed and her eyes rolled up into her head.

A sudden roar came from above and Micah, looked up, his concentration broken, just in time to see a dark-haired form hurtle at him, throwing him on the ground. His back hit grass and the force knocked the breath out of him. When he hit, a sharp stone punctured his shoulder and forcing his hand to convulsively jerk open. His wand rolled away into the dark grass. 

The Slytherin blinked away the stars exploding behind his eyes just in time to see Harry Potter sitting atop him. And then there was nothing but a burst of darkness.

****

  


*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


Severus appeared with a ‘pop’ on the outmost edge of Hogsmead, cradling his left arm to his chest as though wounded. He dropped to his knees with a grunt of pain. The burning of his Mark had spread to his whole body. His eyes were watering and it felt as though a great hand was wrapped around his chest, crushing his heart and cutting off his breath. Even Apparition, a task that he normally took in stride, had left the reserved man nauseous and gasping.

This wasn’t a Summons. This . . . this was unlike anything he had ever felt before. It was like screws of flames being driven trough his body. Coupled with the curious sensation was an overwhelming desire—an absolute, primal _need_ —to return to Hogwarts. To Potter.

And the urgency of it was killing him.

The professor took a single, staggering step before he dropped to his knees, exhausted. His return home had been hastened by the fact that he’d been forced to break into a dead run when he left the Manor grounds and halfway down the road he’d simply given up and shredded the external property Wards. His very _mind_ ached and a strange sort of magic hummed through his veins, pushing him to his feet again and turning him towards Hogwarts.

He made it another six steps before the pain drove him to his knees again. Severus pitched forward with a strangled groan and folded in on himself, pressing his forehead again the gritty pebbled surface of the road. This was not supposed to be happening, but it was just so damned _hard_ to think . . .

_Harry—_

Hasty, aborted breaths forced his chest to jerk as though spasming and tremors shook him. He heard a cat mew somewhere nearby.

This was _not_ supposed to be happening.

A sudden shadow fell over the bowed man, cutting him off from the moonlight.

A gasp: “Severus?!”

Minerva.

A cool hand pressed against the nape of his neck, pushing the fire back just a bit.

“Severus?”

Another arm wrapping round his waist, pulling him up. Holding him steady. 

“What happened? What did that brute of man do to you?”

She sounded so angry. Angry at him?

Yes. She was angry at him. For yelling at Potter.

_Harry._

Who most certainly should have died.

“Severus, you have to breathe. You’re hyperventilating.”

Arms holding him up.

Ached.

“Severus, breathe!”

Dark eyes snapped open and the man took a sudden gasp of air as though he’d been drowning. He jerked away from Minerva and tottered uncertainly, looking both wild and ready to collapse at any second.

Minerva stumbled as her weak leg jerked beneath her, unable to support her full weight and she grimaced and shifted to the other side. She said nothing about Severus’s strange reaction; in her experience the man abhorred being touched, even if it was to save his life. 

She watched the unsteady man warily for a moment, uncertain what was going on. While she was still angry with him, she most certainly did not wish to see him so distressed. “Severus . . .” She kept her tone low and soothing as though he were an injured animal. 

The situation—her, angry and rushed, and Severus, pale and obviously hurting—made her feel curiously nostalgic for the young man’s school days. She’d always felt she’d failed him in some important way then, and it galled her to realize how much she’d failed at the promise she made to herself to look after him. She took another step closer as those eyes swung around to squint at her slightly.

The woman made a slow placating gesture with her hands. “Severus, did your father hurt you? I caught wind of your scent when I was looking for Potter. You smelled like you were in pain and—”

“Potter?” 

The name was a rasped exclamation and Minerva felt herself tense at the way he said it. 

“Severus, you smell like blood,” she snapped to redirect him. The Gryffindor head had absolutely no desire to get into another argument about the boy with him and his question had reminded her of the real reason she’d been dashing towards the Forest in her animagus form before her detour. “Now tell me: did you have a fight with your father?”

“Father?” He looked perplexed by the question and his eyes had a slightly glazed appearance, as though he weren’t all there. She noticed with sudden trepidation that he was frantically rubbing at the Dark Mark through his sleeve. He shook his head wildly like a small child, and dark, slightly greasy hair flew into his face. “ _Potter_ ,” he hissed, clutching hard at his arm.

“Now see here, Severus—”

“Potter!” he snarled again. 

She glared at him and stiffened, the human incarnation of an angry cat. 

“ _Potter!_ ” the man repeated when she said nothing. He teetered again and seemed almost frenzied to her. “Pott— ** _Harry_**!” he finally snapped in exasperation, obviously unable to say what he meant.

“ _Severus!_ ” Minerva felt a hair’s breath away from hexing the man. “What has gotten into—”

Something like an explosion sounded off to their left and the two professors froze, both instinctively turning towards the noise. They stared as a distant gout of flame leapt into the air over the rise of the earth and then there was a moment of loud silence. Not even the crickets chirped. Some rose over the horizon. The flash of green that followed illuminated the night with a horrible familiarity and sent chills down both their spines. 

Blood cold, Minerva whirled around to face her colleague, fear plain on her face. “What about Harry?”

But Severus was already running pell-mell toward the vanished light.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


From the hilltop above, Harry stared down in absolute horror as the small girl fell to the ground screaming, looking almost unhinged by the Curse. The word whispered in his mind, wrapping around his memories like brackish water. _Crucio_.

He saw red.

The brunet pushed himself to his feet, prepared to run to her rescue, when thin fingers wrapped themselves around his wrist.

Draco jerked him back to the ground roughly, alarmed by the wild expression on Harry’s face. “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?!” the blond hissed as he tried to hold the struggling boy down.

Without a word, Harry jerked his hand out of the other teen’s grip and was on his feet again before Draco could even blink. Then the dark-haired Seeker was down the short slope, and he launched himself at Jasperstone with an angry cry. Draco could only stare on in horror. 

_What the hell was I thinking?? Coming out here with a bloody Gryffindor?!_

The blond scrambled to his feet, and ran down the slope towards the two brawling teens. “Potter, no!! You bloody sodding hero!” The idiot was of no use to anyone dead.

Potter ignored him in favor of punching the senior Slytherin in the mouth hard enough to send a small spray of blood into the air. Jasperstone grunted and his head lolled back loosely. Potter got in two more good blows before Micah recovered. The taller boy bucked for a moment in panic as he came to and cried out, barely dodging a fourth blow. Jasperstone kneed Potter in the small of his back, forcing the smaller boy to pitch forward, dislodging him from his perch on the Slytherin’s chest. As Harry fell on top of him with a yelp, Micah raised his arms up to knock the brunet aside and accidentally slammed his elbow into the Seeker’s exposed throat. Potter choked and fell like tree, stunned by the glancing blow. 

Micah wiggled out from under him and looked around wildly for his lost wand. Blood blinded him and a debilitating pain raged through his head. He caught sight of it just as Draco arrived. The blond pitched forward, sliding to the ground to grasp Jasperstone’s wand just before the older Slytherin could summon it.

The two boys each scrambled to their feet, eyeing one another warily. Potter was slowly regaining his bearings behind Jasperstone and Mary was huddling a fetal ball several feet away, next to the entrance to the Wards. Micah took a slow, unsteady step towards Draco. His robes were torn and bloodstained from the nasty split lip Potter had given him and his right eye showed the beginnings of a reddened, puffy bruise. A small cut marred the skin of his left cheek as well and the boy appeared woozy and stunned.

Draco took a step back towards the Forest, almost backing into a tree. He looked much less the worse for wear then his Housemate, but the typical Malfoy smirk was absent. The blond looked almost frightened, actually. He held out the older boy’s wand with both his hands, one at either end of the yew length, and his eyes narrowed. “Take another step and I’ll break it.”

Micah froze. He took a shaky breath and glared hatefully at the younger Slytherin, unable to stop his bruised and aching eye from watering a bit and sending a tear tracking down his cheek. He seemed to be hurting everywhere and his head was ringing from Potter’s blitz attack. That boy fought like a ravenous demon. 

He watched Draco carefully, searching for any weakness, any hint of hesitance . . . But the blond was a true Malfoy, cool and relaxed, even though he was grass stained and disheveled. Behind him, the Seventh Year could hear Potter stirring to his feet and felt something like panic well up in him. Pale green eyes flickered to the Forest just mere feet behind Draco. The scuffle had taken them several yards away from the hole in the Wards. He doubted the fools could even see how far they were from the castle. But just where the hell was his father?

Draco eyes stayed locked on him, still holding the wand out before him, ready to break it at a moment’s notice. “Alright, Potter?”

“Bloody brilliant,” a rough voice behind Micah snapped in irritation. A chill went down the Slytherin’s back as he felt the unmistakable tip of a wand press hard into the base of his skull. One of Potter’s hands landed on his shoulder and a soft puff of warm breath trailed across his cheek as, pulling him down so that he could hear the smaller boy whisper hoarsely in his ear. “Move, and it will be the last thing you do.”

Micah stiffened, but obeyed, bristling at being so thoroughly caught. Gritting his teeth, he ignored Potter to turn up his nose at the Malfoy. “You treacherous mudblood lover.”

The blond merely gave him an airy look of dismissal before his gaze flickered to Potter. A bit of his nonchalance gave way to irritation as he eyed the Gryffindor over Micah’s shoulder. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Potter’s wand pressed even harder against the base of his skull. “I wasn’t going to just stand aside and let her be tortured!”

A flicker of darkness at the edge of the trees made Micah’s heart leap with hope, but he didn’t dare look to see what it was. Neither Potter nor Draco seemed to be aware of it, and he had no desire to enlighten them. As it was, the Dark Lord would see to it that he paid dearly for allowing that silly Gryffindor girl to follow him tonight, regardless of the fact the Malfoy family’s treachery was finally plain for all to see.

Draco was sneering at Potter. “So instead, you just expose us when Death Eaters could just come waltzing up at any moment?! We need to get the Headmaster _now_ , now that you’ve bungled everything,” Draco snipped back, his agitation now obvious. “Before the Death Eater’s arrive.”

The digging at the base of Micah’s skull became painful as Potter applied even more pressure to his wand and the grip on his shoulder sent shooting pains through the wound there. Micah closed his eyes and bit his lip hard to keep from grunting. 

Potter sounded furious behind him. “For the love of God, Malfoy, don’t you have a conscience at all?”

“ _I_ have common sense and absolutely no desire to get myself killed trying to save everyone in the bloody world! Don’t you ever _think?_ ”

“I—”

“You owe me, Potter!” Draco interrupted in a fierce hiss. “We agreed and you owe me. You promised. So stupefy him so that we can get the hell out of here.”

“No, boys . . .” a smooth voice suddenly interjected. “I don’t think you’ll be doing that tonight.”

Micah’s eyes snapped open at the sound of his father’s voice and he nearly melted in relief. Daniel Jasperstone stood at the very edge of the Forest, looking magnificent in full Death Eater regalia. His left arm was wrapped around a semi-conscious Mary Creevey, propping her up against him. His right hand was directing his wand, 11 inches of Scandinavian oak with a core of werewolf hair and hippogriff feather, directly at the small girl’s throat. Despite the fact the man was wearing his mask, Micah knew that the smile on his father’s face was identical to his own.

The Death Eater jabbed Mary’s throat with the tip of his wand in emphasis. “Now why don’t you drop those wands and take a step back like good lads?”

Triumphant, Micah moved forward as Potter’s grip on his shoulder went slack. He shot Draco a dark smirk and was gratified to see that the Malfoy heir had dropped his wand and turned a sickly white color. 

Micah made a show of doing a lazy ‘ _Accio_ ,’ the only spell he could do wandless. His length of yew and griffin hair made a very satisfying smacking sound when it hit his palm. He pointed the wand at Draco and smiled. “You picked the wrong side, Malfoy.”

Potter stepped up next to the blond Seeker, glaring thunderously at the two Jasperstones. 

Daniel Jasperstone prodded at Mary’s throat with his wand again and frowned at the Boy Who Lived from behind his mask. His mind was working fast. The Dark Lord had said to kill anyone who stood in their way, but did that include Potter? The Mirror was meant for him, after all . . . What would happen if he killed the boy? Would he be rewarded? Or punished?

Potter was staring at him . . . No . . . _Glaring_ at him. The man stiffened and glared through his mask at the boy with his good eye. “I said drop your wand, boy.”

The youth made a motion as though preparing to toss aside the wand, but then he suddenly raised it and flicked it directly at Daniel’s head. “ _Vocis confuto!_ ”

Draco’s mouth dropped open as a surge of white light flew from the tip of Potter’s wand and slammed into the girl and Death Eater. “Are you utterly mad?!”

Micah cried out in fear as his father fell and the blond used the opportunity to tackle the boy to the ground again. They wrestled for his wand briefly before Draco managed to seize the length of yew from the boy. He rolled away from the older Slytherin quickly and felt a hex sizzle past him and hit Micah. Strange, claw-tipped tentacles immediately sprouted from the Seventh Year’s face. Draco gripped the now-screaming boy’s wand in both hand and bent it. The wood flashed painfully hot in his hands and then buckled before snapping in two. The crack was audible.

Micah made a strangled noise of pain as the core of his wand was irreparably shattered. Draco dropped the pieces and pushed himself to his feet, grappling for his wand as he went. Jasperstone senior had long since given up on casting spells and had pounced on Potter in the interim. The boy’s glasses had fallen off some time during their struggle. Under the older man’s much heavier weight the Gryffindor Seeker was woefully outmatched and his face was rapidly turning red from the large hand wrapped ‘round his neck. 

Harry’s head snapped back painfully as the Death Eater landed another blow with his free hand and he stopped flailing, stunned. Draco froze for an instant, unsure whether or not he should interfere. He could run right now—flee—and no one with half a brain would blame him for it. He could find Dumbledore, bring the old man out here, be a hero and thus secure his family’s safety because Dumbledore would not dare turn him away with the press singing his praises. _Draco Malfoy Thwarts Death Eater Plot! The story on page two._ He could get rid of all the damn middle man business once and for all and run. And leave Potter to be either strangled to death or beaten to a bloody pulp.

“Fuck!” the blond hissed, knotting his hands in indecision. “Run, Draco! Run,” he growled to himself, still unable to move.

Jasperstone punched Potter in the stomach and the boy’s body jerked.

Draco simply gave up and pointed his wand at the struggling pair. “ _Stupefy!_ ”

The hex bounced off a low level shield, but the force of impact, combined with Potter’s renewed struggles, was enough to knock Jasperstone off the Gryffindor and throw the man to the ground. Harry’s groping hands came across a rock, and he immediately grabbed the object, rolled over, and belted Daniel Jasperstone over the head with it, knocking the man unconscious.

The boy dropped the rock and collapsed to the ground panting, his eyes squeezed tight shut. His throat was mottled red and white and already hand-shaped bruises were beginning to form. He licked his lips and swallowed painfully. “ _Accio_ Harry Potter’s glasses.” The thick spectacles, one round lens fractured, flew into his hand and he slid them onto his face and blinked up at the sky blearily.

Draco watched his classmate warily, trembling slightly as his own adrenaline rush began to wind down.

“You should have run,” Potter wheezed as he pushed himself up unsteadily. His glasses slid forward on his nose and as he raised a shaky hand to push them back up.

Draco scowled viciously at the smaller boy. “And let you have all the glory? I think not.” He looked away, discomforted by the knowingly rakish smirk Potter was directing towards him, despite the other’s bloodied lip. “Anyway,” he continued, still looking at the ground, “there’s not a single other Seeker in this bloody school who can challenge me.”

Harry grinned lopsidedly at his Slytherin counterpart and Draco found himself grinning back, unable to resist that quirky smile. The brunet stuck out his hand. “Thanks, Malfoy.”

Draco accepted the proffered handshake with typical aplomb. “I do what I can.”

Harry released Draco’s hand after a moment and sighed heavily. The breath immediately made him wince, and a hand flew up to his right side. “Bastard hurt my ribs,” he hissed in explanation.

Uncertain what to do, Draco looked away and Potter gently prodded at his side with the fingertips of his right hand. After a moment, he abandoned his ribs and gingerly felt around his throat at the bruises forming there. A crumpled form on the grass caught Draco’s eye and the blond made his way over to it, surprised to find that an ache slid through his leg as he did so. 

He rubbed at his thigh absently, feeling a bruise there, as he made his way towards the little Gryffindor. “What did you hit them with?” he asked.

Potter looked up and grimaced. “Silencing curse.” His voice still sounded a bit rough and breathless. “Freezes the vocal chords for three days. Can’t speak spells. It was all I could think of. Did I hurt her?”

Draco knelt down next to the girl and rolled her over as Potter hobbled towards them and knelt down on the grass. The brunet looked to be in considerable discomfort from his injuries. “Can we wake her? We need to head back.”

“I think she fainted or something.” He waved his wand over her. “ _Enervate_.” 

They both leaned over her, so intent that neither boy seemed to be aware of the concern on the other’s face. Big brown eyes opened and she stared up at the two boys without comprehension for a moment. Then her eyes widened in panic and her mouth opened in a scream. When no sound came out, the tiny girl seemed to panic even more and immediately began to thrash around. Harry, who appeared to have expected this, acted much more quickly than Draco and threw his arms around the girl’s torso, pinning her arms to her side. She elbowed him in his damaged ribs as she struggled and he grunted, but did not let go.

“Mary, calm down!”

The First Year immediately stilled her thrashing at the sound of Harry’s roughened voice and went limp.

Draco’s brow furrowed as he looked over at Potter in confusion. “Crucius Shock?”

Harry’s lips thinned and he nodded. “She’s too little to be under that long.”

Draco did not question Potter’s apparent expertise in regards to Crucius. Ever since the end of last year there had been rumors about some sort of bond between Potter and the Dark Lord. Quite frankly, Draco was fairly certain that he didn’t want to know. And—even if he did—any prodding would no doubt have destroyed their tentative new camaraderie. 

Suddenly, a violent tremor shook Mary and Harry almost dropped her, afraid for a moment that she was in the throes of a seizure. Then a trembling hand rose and pointed into the woods behind them. Draco stood and whirled around and Harry’s head snapped away from the girl just in time to see four more Death Eaters emerge from the Forest, carrying something levitated between them. The two groups stared at one another, each stunned by the other’s presence. Then Draco moved.

“ _Expelliarmus!!_ ”

The Death Eater on the back right hand corner flew back into the woods, slamming into a tree with a sickening crack before crumpling to the ground in a twitching heap. His mask cracked down the middle and fell off, revealing the pockmarked face of the headsman Avery, whom Harry had first seen at the end of his third year. Blood slid down a nasty gash on the man’s forehead and only the whites of his eyes were visible. 

Whatever the Death Eaters were carrying between them was apparently immensely heavy because, as soon as Avery’s support was removed, the other three let out a groan and buckled before loosing hold of it and all falling to their knees. One of them raised a wand, and Harry retaliated with a Jelly Legs hex so strong it set all the man’s limbs to wobbling uncontrollably.

As the other Death Eater tumbled to the ground, limbs atremble, the two remaining abandoned their burden and arose with their wands drawn. Harry stood, the motions sending pain through his ribs, and jerked Mary to her feet. He stepped in front of the girl and gritted his teeth, wand raised. 

“Stay behind me.” His voice scratched at his throat. “The minute the fight starts, run to the castle and get Dumbledore, understand?”

He felt the girl immediately latch onto his back, trembling violently. He felt her nod against the middle of his back and steeled himself for a fight.

Draco stepped back next to him, wand raised. “You know, I blame you for this, Potter,” the blond hissed.

Harry shot him an irritated look and tightened his grip on the hilt of his own wand. “Yes, I know. I blame me, too,” he muttered.

The Death Eaters both raised their wand and the moonlight made their masks glow luminously. The two boys swallowed hard, frightened in spite of themselves. 

The cry from behind them took everyone by surprise. “ _Morsus!_ ”

Harry whirled around at the cry, shoving Mary behind him again as Draco fell to the ground shrieking in pain. Neither of them had been expecting another opponent to be behind them, yet there was Micah Jasperstone, purple tentacles writhing from various parts of his face as he pointed his father’s wand at Draco Malfoy. 

Harry snarled and pointed his wand at Jasperstone. “ _Stupefy!_ ”

The Slytherin threw himself to the side as the Curse zipped past him. There was a snap as he landed on his arm all wrong and he screamed.

The Curse disrupted, Draco’s cries ceased and he went limp. The smaller of the two Death Eaters extended an ash black wand and a muffled, distinctly feminine voice emerged from behind the mask. “ _Accio_ Draco Malfoy!”

The blond Slytherin went flying into the woman’s arms and she caught him with surprising tenderness, toppling over as 100 plus pounds of gangly teenage boy hit her. The woman immediately began to fuss over the boy, gently slapping at his face to bring him round, but Harry had no time to marvel at the unexpected sight because the larger Death Eater was suddenly bearing down on him, a short, unusually thick wand waving before him.

“ _Crucio!_ ”

Harry threw Mary roughly to the side and felt heat brush past his chest as he barely managed to dodge in time. “Run!” 

The girl stumbled off, obviously dazed and confused, but Harry had no time to worry about his Housemate because the Death Eater’s attention seemed to be focused on him and him alone. The Gryffindor Seeker staggered in pain as his battered body refused to break into a run, and fell to the ground just as another Curse—one he didn’t recognize—whizzed overhead. He blinked, one hand securing his glasses to his face as the other clutched his wand, trying to clear the stars dancing in his line of vision. The Curse hit a tree directly in front of him and the boy stared a moment as the large oak’s bark seemed to melt off before the tree began to shrivel.

“ _Eptum!_ ”

Harry rolled to the left as the grass where he’d been exploded upward and, using the momentum of the roll, pushed himself to his feet. His body ached in protest but the discomfort had become a distant thing. Panic was now beginning to kick in: Draco was down, Mary was useless, and he was alone against three pissed off Death Eaters. 

_“You know, I blame you for this, Potter.”_

Though said in jest, the words were scathing now, and Harry tried to use them as a focus point to ward against the sense of panic he could feel trying to blossom within him. He dodged behind a tree and tried to even out his breathing. He had to get to Draco. He had to get to Mary. He had to get them all back to the other side of the Wards. He had to get them all out of this together. The brunet wiped sweaty palms against his robes and took his wand in a tighter grip.

He had promised Draco he’d look out for him and his family.

He had _promised_.

The teen risked sticking his head out to see where his dodges had driven him in relation to Hogwarts and the others and was horrified to realize that they had actually been driven further into the Forest. The female Death Eater seemed to have brought Draco round and, though the blond did not seem to be in any immediate danger, Harry wasn’t about to leave the other boy in the arms of a Death Easter. They were about ten yards to his left and he could barely see them for the trees. Mary had had the good sense to hide behind a tree within his line of sight and the girl looked like she was two second from a nervous breakdown. The Death Eater Harry had cast Jelly Legs on was nowhere to be seen, but the other Death Eater was standing between Harry and the Wards, and there was no way he could get to any of his goals without the bear-like man seeing him.

“Damnit!” 

His hissed curse, unfortunately, caught the Death Eater’s attention and Harry was forced to duck behind his tree again tree as another unknown Curse stripped his shelter of most of its bark. His head rang from the sound of the impact and there was a flash of pain as a bit of bark flicked past him, slicing into his skin as it went. His hand flew involuntarily to his cheek and he felt blood.

Another Curse hit the tree and Harry could feel the abused wood literally bend over him with the force of the spell.

“Drop that damned boy and help me,” the Death Eater bellowed to his female cohort, “else the Dark Lord will have you both!”

Harry used the Death Eater’s moment of distraction to dive from behind the tree and dart to a different cover, this one a towering Elm. The change of position unfortunately made him lose sight of everyone else and he pressed his back tightly against his new, as yet un-Cursed tree. 

“Damndamndamndamn. . .” The muttered chant broke free of his lips of its own accord and he clenched his fists to keep them from trembling. What the hell had he gotten himself into? What was he supposed to do now?

The boy hissed out a breath from between clenched teeth and pushed his back hard against the tree. Where was a centaur when you really needed one?

A full minute passed, and then another, and still no more curses flew into the trees. Harry opened his eyes slowly and unclenched his fists. The temptation to peer out from behind the tree was overwhelming, but he didn’t dare stick his head out. Not after the last time. He wished vaguely that Ron and Hermione were there with him. He wished Severus was there.

“Potter!”

The voice rolled through the trees, thick-sounding and deep, as though the man was congested, and Harry flinched at the sound.

“Potter, if you want this little girl to see the next day, you show yourself! Are you just going to hide behind a tree like a damned coward?! Are you going to let her die in your place, too? How many more?”

The boy grit his teeth. How had the blasted girl managed to get caught _again_? Didn’t he tell her to get to Dumbledore?

A wet warmth suddenly flooded his hand and Harry jerked out of his thoughts as though startled. He blinked his eyes against the darkness and stared down into the palm of his left hand. There was blood slowly pooling in his palm from three shallow, crescent shaped punctures. He pressed his palm against his dirty robes and set his mouth into a hard line. In the spotty moonlight filtering through the bare treetops he could see phantom streaks of red on the back of his hand.

_“You know, I blame you for this, Potter.”_

Then another memory—older, more painful, and infinitely more important: _“This is not some game! This is my job! My **life**!! Are you trying to kill me as well?”_

And he could remember them all—even the one he’d rather forget. So no. There would be no more.

Harry stood up, his back and ribs screaming in protest, and stepped away from his shelter. 

“Leave her alone!” His voice remained raspy from his bruised throat, but it carried through the trees with surprising clarity. He pushed himself away from the tree and began to walk forward, hoping he appeared less damaged and worn than he felt. Brittle branches and long dead leaves crackled with painful loudness under his beaten trainers as he walked forward, eyes trained on the Death Eater in front of him.

Even through his cracked lens, gritty eyes, and the pervasive pounding in his temples, Harry could easily tell that the man was unusually tall—a hulking mass more than a man, really. Mary—still rendered mute by Harry’s spell—was clutched by the throat in one meaty hand, while the other kept a pale peach-colored wand trained on the boy as he came forward. A large purple welt ran across the girl’s face and she had a dazed appearance. 

The Gryffindor stopped about a yard in front of the man and his hostage. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see Draco, now on his feet and looking unaccountably cozy with the woman who had pulled him out of the fray. Harry bit his lips and tried to ignore the niggling little sense of betrayal that curdled in his stomach, despite his instincts to the contrary. The blond took a step towards him, but the woman extended a hand, holding him back, and pointed her wand at Harry. The Gryffindor swallowed hard.

Green eyes flickered back to the man. “Let her go.”

He got the distinct impression that the Death Eater was smirking at him from behind his mask. The hand around Mary’s throat tightened beyond the realm of safety.

“Drop your wand.”

The green-eyed Seeker’s hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his wand for an instant and he almost turned to look at Draco. Almost. Then, his hand opened and the magically enhanced wood fell to the ground with a barely audible clatter. He closed his eyes and waited.

 _Draco, please._

He didn’t have to wait long. 

The Death Eater kept his wand trained on Harry who seethed silently. “Get up here, Draco!” 

The man sounded almost . . . paternalistic. Which was beyond bizarre, since the only man Harry could ever imagine being paternalistic towards Draco was Lucius, and there was no way that that man was Malfoy Senior. Draco stepped into Harry’s line of sight, his blue eyes locked on the ground. He looked uncharacteristically . . . humbled.

The Death Eater’s body language looked profoundly unhappy. “You were told to stay inside, boy. You were _told_ to stay out of this!” He shook Mary as though using her to emphasize his words. Tears slid down the girl’s cheeks as she was jerked back and forth. “Oh, our Lord will have you on a platter for this, mark me! The least you can do is dispose of Potter.”

Harry bit his lip. Draco looked over at the boy next to him and for just the briefest moment their eyes locked. Draco looked away first.

The Malfoy heir turned back to the Death Eater and took a step backwards. He raised his wand and his eyes flickered up. “I’m sorry, Uncle Richard. _Aeternus dormito_.”

The Death Eater’s eyes widened just a fraction in stupid shock before he dove out of the way, tossing Mary aside. Harry dropped to the ground, desperately groping for his wand in the darkness. It was instinct alone that made him raise his head just in time to see the Death Eater, mask lost somewhere in the grass, roll to his feet and point his wand at him. It was Goyle’s father. 

Mary landed hard on the ground with a voiceless whimper and Harry waved her off frantically. “We’ll distract them. It’s us they want. Go!! Go now!”

Thankfully, the girl didn’t need to be told twice and immediately rolled to her feet and fled back towards the castle. Harry’s sigh of relief was cut short when he found himself looking up the length of the wand.

“Draco!” It was the female Death Eater. When had she gotten up?

Goyle’s wand trembled. “ _Ava—_ ”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, pressed his palms on the ground, and screamed the first spell that sprung to mind. “ _Ignis in terram!_ ” 

Power roared through the boy like lightening crawling under his skin. It ripped out of his hands, and felt like acid against his flesh. Harry threw back his head and screamed in pain. Motes of light danced in front of his eyes.

A giant gout of red flame leapt up to the sky, engulfing the man and setting several trees alight. The man released a short-lived shriek of agony and flailed for a moment, and Harry had to avert his eyes from the brightness of the flames. The overpowering scent of scorched flesh and burnt hair permeated the air like overcooked, rancid meat and the Gryffindor felt his stomach heave. He forced himself to look up again when the brilliant flame faded. Where the Death Eater had been was now only a curled up, shrunken cinder. The shape of the charred mass was the only indicator that it had ever been human. 

Harry blinked away the spots in front of his eyes and slowly forced himself to his feet. As he stood, his hand brushed against his wand and he picked it up. He looked around the clearing, stunned by the force of the magic he’d unleashed. It was an old spell—borderline Druid Magic—and called on the power of the Earth itself instead of a Wizard’s own magic, merely using the human body as a conduit. He’d stumbled across it during his study of archaic magic. Most wizards would have died even attempting to draw in Elemental Magic. The fact that he had succeeded was exhilarating. And terrifying. He had never used the Earth Fire spell—it was not supposed to be used on people, but for smelting weapons. The results were . . . horrifying.

The green-eyed boy looked away from the seared, smoking cinder, nearly overwhelmed by nausea. The flesh on his hands was red and raw. They hurt. He dropped his arms when they began to tremble violently and looked away, only to find himself staring up into a pair of piercing silver eyes.

Draco was looking at him with an expression akin to horror. The blond took an unsteady step away from him and slowly shook his head. His lower lip moved as though he was about to say something, but he never got the chance. 

A shadow hurtled out of the darkness behind them and Harry took two great bounds forward and shoved Draco back into the woman just as a gutturally shrieked “ _Crucio!_ flew past them. The Gryffindor turned slightly, nearly sick with the motion, and released a little moan when he saw Avery, bruised, bloodied, and looking absolutely deranged, lurching towards them, standing between him and Draco. Harry raised his wand on instinct alone. He couldn’t have cast a spell if he tried.

Avery raised a wand, bluish in hue, and pointed at him. “Mudblood freak!”

Harry swayed on his feet and for a moment thought he saw something like black eyes set in a pale, stern face flash in front of him. He tried to summon a shield, but knew he couldn’t stop what was coming next. He could see it in the mad shine in Avery’s eyes—a strangely comforting green. He took a step towards his would-be executioner and there was a sudden, painful swell of magic in the air. He didn’t understand how he could possibly recognize it—how he could feel it crawling like fire out of Avery and up the tip of that bluish black wand pointed at him. He braced himself and forced his eyes open wide, even as he cringed. Green light blossomed at the end of the wand.

_Severus. . ._

“ _Avada Kedavra!_ ”

Avery collapsed with the effort of casting.

Someone screamed.

The Curse hit Harry with the force of a freight train, physically pushing him backwards nearly a foot, and all he could see was green. Grass churned up beneath his trainers as he was pushed backwards and he sunk into the earth nearly up his ankles. It felt as though a giant hand were wrapping around him, squeezing and pulling him apart at he same time.

Draco gaped openly in astonishment as the green light of Avada Kedavra bent in an emerald bow around Potter, pushed him back a bit, and then _bounced_ —snapping out like a rubber band . . . right towards his mother.

It wasn’t even a question to him, simply a matter of necessity. The Malfoy heir stepped in front of Narcissa and closed his eyes. And then he crumpled to the ground as the light washed quietly over him.

Everything was still.

For a moment the Gryffindor stared at the other Seeker, disbelieving, his face twisted in confusion. Even the woman seemed shocked, staring down at the boy laying at her feet as though she couldn’t really see him. Draco looked like he was asleep. The awful shock on Cedric’s face was absent here, as was the slack blunted look on Sirius’s face as he fell backwards into the Arc. There was no twist of pain. No anger or anguish or agony to mar the slender blond’s features. No blame. The look on Draco’s face was almost peaceful. Relaxed. 

More human than Harry had ever known him to be. 

How had he died like that? So simply . . .?

And then the female Death Eater let out a wounded shriek that made the boy’s blood run cold. “ _Draco!!_ ” 

The woman dropped to her knees and tore at the mask that hid her features. The porcelain came away in a flurry of motion and dropped to the grass silently. Long blond hair came free of its clasp and the woman looked up at the moon brightened sky, blue eyes wild with grief. She gathered her son to her haphazardly, unable to fully gather in the long sprawl of his limbs into her lap. His arms lolled out to the side marionette-like and his legs bent and folded in a way that, though natural, seemed unreal. 

“No . . . _nonononononononono—_ ”

Strangely enough, all Harry could think of was that the air smelled like carbon and ozone.

Narcissa cradled her son in her arms and wept dry tears, brushing his hair out of his face and murmuring his name over and over as though it would wake him. “Draco . . . please . . .”

The sudden bright ball of white light of light that appeared in the sky blinded them both and seemed to shake Narcissa out of her stupor. The creeping things in the Forest, the only things that had not fled during the fight, immediately took cover as the Forest was magically illuminated. Someone was coming. 

Harry lurched forward, leaving one of his trainers behind in the dirt, tripped over Avery’s prone form, and collapsed on the ground next to Narcissa and Draco. The Malfoy matriarch’s grip on her son’s corpse tightened and she stared at him with an almost mad look in her reddened eyes. She wasn’t crying. Barely contained screaming hysterical perhaps, but not crying.

Harry imagined that he could hear footsteps coming closer. He reached out and grabbed Narcissa’s alabaster hand in his filthy one, leaving streaks of bloodied mud on her pale skin. He had promised Draco he’d protect them. 

The woman made no move to recoil, but she didn’t release Draco, either. 

Harry gripped her hand tighter. Her skin was cold and clammy. 

“You have to go.” The effort of speaking was painful and Harry’s sounded voice sounded like broken glass being drug over sandpaper. “You have to _go_ ,” he repeated in an urgent hiss when she didn’t move. “People are coming. No matter who they are, you have to go.”

True to Malfoy form, the blonde took a deep, shuddered breath and seemed to center herself. Her grip on Draco tightened and she nodded, somehow queenly, tragic, and mud streaked all at once. 

Harry grabbed her hand again and shook his head. His vision swam and blackness seemed to pull at the corner of his mind, but he grit his teeth and hung on. “You can’t take him with you. Questions,” this last came out in a gasp as shooting fire laced through his right side. “Can’t.”

“I will _not_ leave my son here!” she snarled suddenly, all the veneer of elegance gone. “I will not leave my son in the mud and the cold and—” A painful choking sob cut her off and she quickly averted her eyes, one hand fluttering to her face to conceal her sorrow.

Harry removed his hand, feeling utterly wasted, and nodded his consent. He rolled onto his back, pain stabbing at him with the motion. He would not take her child from her, not even if he had the strength left to do so. The stars were nearly invisible against the bright magical light that flooded the Forest. 

“Go.” His voice was barely audible. “I’ll protect you.” The words tasted rancid in his mouth.

He could hear someone running now . . . far away. 

A hand brushed against his cheek as though wiping something away, and it might very well have been his own except that it was so cold. He wasn’t sure anymore. Things seemed thick and fuzzy. Then the touch was gone. Narcissa Apparated, still cradling Draco, without another word. The crack of the magic echoed loudly in his ears like a handgun fired at close range. 

He turned away from it a second too late and, when he opened his eyes, the brilliant illumination made it clear that the whole fight had really taken place only a thirty feet or so away from the Wards. The runner was close now, almost on top of him. Laughter, unfocused and hysterical, seemed to bubble up in him, but when he opened his mouth, no sound came out. Jasperstone Senior and Avery and the blackened remains of Goyle all lay still within his line of sight. Avery’s eyes were open and a branch was pressing into one of his eyeballs. Casting the Curse had killed him. Harry didn’t bother to wonder how or why. The fifth Death Eater and Japserstone the younger were nowhere to be seen, nor was whatever the Death Eaters had been carrying. All had probably vanished back to Voldemort where they had come from.

“Harry!” A man. Someone he knew.

 _No, no, no. You should see to Malfoy._ But then he remembered that the Malfoys were gone. The words wouldn’t come out anyway.

A dark shadow fell over him then, blocking out the light and the invisible stars. A second one, slightly smaller, followed. 

A woman. “Mr. Potter!! What happened?! Where’s Mr. Malfoy?!” 

The laughter came then—thick, hard, and frantic—and he squeezed his eyes shut against the sound of his own voice. “Y—y—you’re late—”

And then arms were around him and the smell of sweat, and old, dead things, and peaches, and roses, and blood, and something he _knew_ —something _safe_ —was there. Something that he couldn’t name, but was not pain, or fire, or charred Death Eater. 

Something real—

_“ I’ve no desire to be the latest of your victims of time and circumstance, Potter.”_

Harry buried his face in the soft black robes as something horribly similar to a sob worked its way up his throat and burned behind his eyes and he knew where he was.

_Anhur. Severus. Home._

He pushed the soft robes away from his mouth and felt himself slide away—“ _I—I’m sorry—_ ”and fell exhausted into the darkness.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


Voices.

_“Where were you?”_

Women. A man.

_“How is he?”_

They faded in and out. And he felt both warm and cold—like he was floating.

_“Resting. Broken ribs . . . curses . . . burns . . . own body as a conduit . . . physical damage . . . reaction . . . worried might not recover . . . Calming drafts . . .”_

_“. . . see . . . Healer . . .?”_

_“. . . be . . . idea . . .”_

_“Draco . . .”_

_“. . . nothing . . . do . . .”_

_“And Severus?”_

_**Severus.** _

__Something solid. Something real. __

_**Severus.** _

__But it slipped away too fast. __

_“Mr. Jasperstone . . . injured . . .”_

_“. . . won’t . . . talk . . .”_

_“. . . Veritaserum . . .”_

_“. . . All . . .?”_

_“. . . Cancel classes . . . three days . . . weekend . . .”_

_“. . . Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger . . . angry . . . office . . . talk . . .”_

_“. . . Fawkes . . .”_

_“ . . . the body . . . ?”_

_“. . . funeral . . . with Madame Malfoy . . .”_

_“Crabbe and Goyle . . . badly . . .”_

_“. . . Father . . . killed . . .”_

_“Severus . . .”_

_**Severus.** _

_“. . . Unforgivable . . . frantic . . . worried . . . potions . . . tell him . . .”_

_“ . . . Azkaban . . . Ministry Inquiry . . .”_

_“. . . Board of Directors . . .?”_

_“. . . temporary injunction . . . custody . . .”_

_“. . . Obliviate . . . Creevey . . . St. Mungo’s . . .”_

_“. . . Slytherin House . . .”_

_“. . . angry . . . drunk . . .?”_

_“. . . Dark Mark . . .”_

_“. . . know . . .”_

_“. . . tired . . . Give him . . .”_

_**Severus.** _

_“And Potter?”_

_“Let the child sleep.”_

The next time Harry woke up, it was night and he knew he was in the Hospital Wing. He was laying on something strange, though; something warm and firm. Something that smelled like roses and tea and something sweet and sour. Something safe. When he tried to move, a hand ran itself through gently his hair and pulled him closer to that delicious warmth.

“Shhhhh, Harry.” A man’s rolling voice. Shakespearian, deep, and tinged with exhaustion. Tinged with something more. “. . . Rest now.”

And so he did.

  
**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**  



	11. The Thin Edge of the Wedge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_  
> Where the Heart Moves the Stone_**  
>  \- Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc -  
> \- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
> 10.7.2003  
>  **  
> *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
> **
> 
> Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ was written by T.S. Elliot. I am not profiting from this.  
>  ** _Warnings:_** SS/HP slash, sexual content, violence,  & language.
> 
> This is the **_UN-CUT_** version. To view the “clean” version, please go to http://www.fanfiction.net/~vain and click on ‘Where the Heart Moves the Stone.’
> 
>  **Kudos and thanks** must got to my beta readers: the effervescent _LadyDeathFarie_ , sparkly _Korax_ , and tasty _Evelia_.
> 
> Please review.

**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

**~ Chapter Seven ~  
The Thin Edge of the Wedge**

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***

“The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved.  
For the hurt of the daughter of my people am I hurt;  
I am black; astonishment hath taken hold of me.  
Is there no balm in Gilead; is there no physician there?  
why then is not the health of the daughter of my people recovered?”  
\- Jeremiah 8: 20-22

***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**

_T_ he words were drawn out with Veritaserum and etched into record with a Quick Quotes Quill. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Madame Pomfrey, Severus, Dumbledore, McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout were the only ones in attendance. And Fawkes. Fawkes was there, too. The young, barely molting phoenix perched on Harry’s knee during the interview, warbling pathetically and weeping tears for him that were of no use.

Harry had never been under Veritaserum before and was grateful for the insulation the truth serum provided. He could feel relatively little emotion as he recounted the tale, and the memories did not have the hazy, frantic feel that the events did. Everything seemed clearer. He could see where he’d lost his temper, where he’d panicked, where he’d made his mistakes. And he had made _so many_ of them . . .

No one spoke but Dumbledore, and he looked old and paper thin as he prodded at Harry’s emotional wounds. Not even the serum could hide the raw, tattered undertone in the boy’s voice, though, and with every response the Headmaster seemed to get older and grayer. For his part, Harry simply sat propped up against the too-starched, stiff Hospital Wing pillows and stared with blurry eyes down at his bandaged hands. A new pair of glasses—silver rimmed, smaller, lighter, and expensive-looking—were on his night stand. His old glasses had vanished somewhere and no one could seem to find them. Even after two days, Harry refused to wear the new ones. Instead, he spent his waking hours squinting at something in the distance that only he could see. 

He would only speak to Ron, Hermione, and Albus—but that could have very well been because those three were the only ones who really tried to speak with him. Part of the reason for that was because he’d been cloistered in one of the private rooms in the back of the Wing with an overly protective Dobby and Winky standing guard all day. Everyone but Ron, Hermione and the staff were booted out by the Elves. Another part of it was that no one could seem to look him in the eye without quickly looking away. Thus, other than his friends, no one else really came to visit him—at least, not when he was awake. There was, however, the time he’d woken up to see Professor McGonagall sitting by his bed and crying very, very quietly. He closed his eyes and pretended he was still asleep. There were also the times when he woke to the scent of peaches, tea, blood, and something sweet, sour, and _potions-like_ , though the room was empty. Once, thinking he’d been dreaming, he’d reached out and rested the exposed tips of his fingers on the seat of the chair next to his bed. It was still warm.

“I found Ignis in Terrum while I was looking up spells for a project.” That wasn’t a lie. Killing Voldemort was a project, if ever there was one. “I never even thought about using it before—the books said it was too difficult. But when Goyle started to cast Avada Kedavra on me, I panicked. It was the first spell I thought of. I’d dropped my wand already, so I just put my hands on the ground and tried to pull at the magic down there. It startled me when it worked. It didn’t take him very long at all to die.”

“Self defense then,” Kingsley muttered, barely audible above the scratching of the Quick Quotes Quill. 

Sprout frowned at him and made a shushing motion with her hands. Minerva clutched the head of her cane and glared stonily at the back of Dumbledore’s battered fuchsia hat, and Snape was uncharacteristically slouching slightly in a stiff, hardback chair with his arms crossed in front of him, stalwartly avoiding everyone’s eyes. Pomfrey stood anxiously at the head of Harry’s bed, minding her patient with sharp, hawkish eyes. The boy moved only his mouth.

Underneath the veil of the potion, he felt something broken and rotted inside him. _“Self defense then.”_ As though it could have been anything else. He wondered if Kingsley knew what had happened at the Durselys’ house—what he’d done. Dumbledore said no one would have to know. Dumbledore’s voice had sounded old that night, just like now. They wanted to know about Draco. 

He answered more questions and stared down at his hands. He wanted Severus to look at him. Severus stared impassively at the floor. 

“She wanted to take him home with her. I could have probably stopped her if I had wanted to, but I promised him I’d do what I could to help his family.”

“And you think letting Narcissa take Draco back to Malfoy Manor helped them?”

“Yes.” He stared down at the grains of the potions-soaked gauze, seeing Draco laying still and pale in his mind’s eye. “She was right. He shouldn’t have been just lying there like that. In the mud, I mean. He wouldn’t have liked it. He didn’t want to die like that—because of me. He shouldn’t have been in the mud like that. Like he was a part of _them_.” Them. The Death Eaters. “He wouldn’t have liked it.” The words were repetitious and tiresome and Harry blinked slowly, trying to organize and regroup his sluggish thought processes. “I’m sorry.”

He had said it so many times his tongue ached from forming the words. 

An old, wrinkled hand laid itself gently atop his bandaged ones and squeezed lightly, enough to make his damaged skin tingle, but not enough to hurt. No one told him that it wasn’t his fault, though. Perhaps Dumbledore couldn’t lie right now, either.

Severus wouldn’t look at him.

“How did Avery die?” Dumbledore asked.

Memories of the angsty muggle music that Dudley had been so partial to in June suddenly flooded his mind and Harry closed his eyes in a long, slow blink, listening to dulcet phantom tones in his head. He inhaled and exhaled slowly, humming silently. His cousin’s attempts to seem tortured and deep suddenly struck Harry as silly and terribly shallow

_You don’t . . . you don’t . . . you don’t see me. You don’t . . . you don’t . . . you don’t see me . . ._

“Harry?”

The boy opened his eyes. Even blurry, the hospital was too white. “Disarming spell. Malfoy sent him into a tree. He hit his head. I thought that he had passed out, but then he jumped up between Malfoy and me after I killed Goyle. He cast the Killing Curse and fell down. He didn’t get back up. I don’t know what happened to him after that.”

Dumbledore made a contemplative noise and leaned back in his chair. He steepled his hands in front of his face, elbows resting on the arms of his seat. 

Harry’s eyes began to ache from the strain of continually attempting to focus. _You . . . don’t . . . see me . . . You . . . don’t . . . see me. You . . . don’t . . . you don’t see me._

Severus shifted for the first time since this session began and straightened a bit in his chair. His dark eyes flickered to the still form on the bed and he twitched and fidgeted uncomfortably, as though he wanted to say something. Poppy leveled a fierce glare at him from her Mother Hen position at Harry’s side. Her patient saw the exchange as a series of dark blurs out of the corner of his eye.

_You don’t . . . see me. You don’t see me at all._

More questions. ‘What spells did they cast?’ ‘Where did the others go?’ ‘What were they carrying onto the grounds?’ ‘What did you feel when the Killing Curse hit you?’ ‘Has your scar been tingling?’

He answered them as best he could. The Quick Quotes Quill seemed unbearably loud. 

“Do you have anything else you’d like to tell us?”

“I’m sorry.” He wanted to slap himself even as the words left his mouth. He wanted to scream. The potion wouldn’t let him. 

The hand reached forth again and rested atop his with a gentle squeeze. “I know, Harry.”

The Headmaster turned and whispers were exchanged that ranged just out of Harry’s hearing. They were keeping secrets from him again. Veritaserum forced him to realize that he didn’t blame them—not after the way he’d ballsed up on Tuesday. He wanted to keep secrets too. He wanted to stop apologizing. He wanted . . . Out of the corner of his eye, he could seem the blurry shadow that was Severus staring at the floor again. 

He wanted Severus to look at him again and not hate him.

The potion didn’t even let him pretend to grieve. It was somehow disgusting that, even after all that had happened, all he could think of was Snape. He wondered if he was sick. The potion let him know that it didn’t matter to him. Harry closed his eyes, feeling nauseous.

Dumbledore turned back around and sighed quietly. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep?”

The question was rhetorical. The potion didn’t care.

“Because I’ll dream.” Harry decided that he hated Veritaserum. 

Dumbledore seemed startled at his reply and he shot Madame Pomfrey a look that Harry was incapable of deciphering without his glasses. The matronly woman gently touched the boy’s shoulder, forcing him to look up at her. Something he couldn’t focus on was waved in front of his face. 

“Drink this now, Potter,” she said in her brisk, firm voice. “It’s the antidote to the serum. It also has something in it that will help you rest.”

The lip of the flask was pressed against his lower lip and he tipped his head back, swallowing instinctively as something thick, cool, and unaccountably creamy slid down his throat. It tasted faintly like rosewater and Harry’s eyes teared up at the cloying flavor. 

The mediwitch hummed in approval and helped Harry lay back down. Though most of his wounds had healed, he still ached fiercely. His scar had also been livid and red and had been throbbing dully since Tuesday night. He settled into the cool, starched Hospital Wing sheets with a lump in his throat and a looming sense of unease. He wanted to reach out and catch someone’s hand as they passed—ask them to stay—but the effort seemed to be too much when he’d already taken so much of his professors’ time and energy. 

As the others departed, Dumbledore paused next to his bed. Harry stared blankly at the perpetual glass of water on the nightstand as a weight settled down on the edge of his mattress and the smell of lemon drops and—oddly enough—peppermint underscored by soap and a metallic scent seemed to wrap about him. The Headmaster looked at the glass that had arrested his student’s gaze for a moment in contemplation.

Harry had spent most of the past two days asleep, or with Ron and Hermione, and, between the Order, Hogwarts, the Board of Directors, and trying to stave off Fudge and the Ministry, Albus had been inundated with work. Not to mention, he had his own . . . project . . . he’d been working on since July. He hadn’t really had time to visit Harry the few times the boy had been awake. Interrogating the child the moment he woke up had not been the way he wanted to start his Friday morning.

Thankfully, Ron and Hermione had been waiting in his office when he had left the infirmary on Tuesday night, and he had been able to instruct them not to ask Harry what had happened. This way, at least, he could create a cogent cover story without too many people knowing what had actually happened. Jasperstone senior had been spirited away to a safehouse until the Silence Curse wore off—some time tonight, most likely—and Mary had been unconscious since the incident and occupied a bed in the main Hospital Wing. She had yet to awaken. Thus far, he had only Narcissa Malfoy and Harry’s statements to go by, but they matched practically to a tee. Damage control with the Board of Directors and Ministry could be accomplished easily enough—provided he pull the right strings—but he had no idea how he would handle the emotional impact of these events. Death Eaters were not supposed to attack on Hogwarts’ very doorstep. And they most certainly were _not_ supposed to kill one of his students and land two more in the Hospital Wing right under his very nose.

Harry shifted slightly to allow the elderly man more room and turned sluggish, slightly out of focus eyes to his mentor. There were dark rings below the boy’s eyes and he had a waxen, waif-like appearance to him. It vaguely reminded Albus of the way the boy had looked when Alastor had first brought him to Headquarters from the Dursleys’ that summer. 

“You’ve not been sleeping well.”

It was not a question and Harry made no move to deny it.

“He’s angry.” Despite the fact that the bruising on his throat had healed, the boy’s voice still sounded a bit rough. “I can feel it. My shields have been holding, but it . . . aches.”

Albus nodded and pursed his lips pensively, wondering what he should do or say. There was no manual on how to handle emotionally damaged children and he felt terribly ill-equipped to comfort the boy. Of course, in light of Severus’s evasive behavior over the past few days, it was easy to surmise that Harry had relatively little interest in the Headmaster’s comfort. 

Albus reached into his robes and removed a large tome from one of his magically maintained pockets. There was something comical about seeing him reach into his thin sunshine yellow robes and remove this enormous book, but Harry didn’t smile. 

“Your storybook,” he explained as he set the book of fairy tales down in the nightstand. “There was a school service for Draco yesterday morning. A plaque was erected in his honor.”

“Ron and Hermione told me last night. They said it was nice.” 

The Headmaster nodded and his eyes became unfocused, as though looking elsewhere. “Yes. It was very nice. I suppose your friends have also informed you that classes are canceled until Monday?”

Harry nodded.

“If you would like to take more time, that’s fine. Messrs. Crabbe and Goyle, as well as Ms. Parkinson have been granted extended leaves of absence.”

A small furrow appeared on Harry’s forehead. “When is the funeral?”

“Tomorrow.” The glimmer in the Headmaster’s eyes seemed to dim a bit more. “Mrs. Malfoy has invited you to attend. I saw her on Wednesday morning. She came to make a statement to the Board of Directors in your favor. With her help, and that of Kingsley and some good friends within the Ministry and the _Daily Prophet_ , we’ll be able to have this whole mess cleared up by next week. Mrs. Malfoy said that she wants to put all of this unpleasantness behind the family . . . And that she does not blame you for anything.” 

His eyes narrowed shrewdly as Harry looked away. “Harry—”

“I’ll go,” the boy said to a wall. “I want to go. But I’ll return to classes on Monday. Ron and ‘Mione said that they’d help me keep up, but I don’t want them to have to. I don’t want to depend on them so much. If anything happened to them—”

“Then they would be proud to be standing at your side when it happened,” the Headmaster interrupted. “We’ve talked about this, Harry. You know you cannot push them away, nor can you keep them in the dark all the time. Quite frankly, they would be most upset if you did. You do not like it when I keep things that you think are important from you. Do you think they feel any differently? They are already targets.”

“I got Draco killed.” The words sounded loose and rough. “I don’t want them to get hurt, too.”

Albus shook his head, knowing that Harry couldn’t see the motion. “Draco made his own choices, Harry.” His voice was unusually stern and Harry turned to him, weary green eyes widening in surprise. “He died doing exactly what he wanted to do,” the Headmaster continued, “protecting his loved ones. Do not invalidate his sacrifice or his bravery by saying that it was anything less. To do so is both cruel and disrespectful . . . to both yourself _and_ the memory of Mr. Malfoy. You owe him more than that, and I owe both of you far too much to allow you to destroy yourself over this, do you understand?”

Avada Kedavra eyes remained wide and Albus smiled sadly. “My dear child . . .” the tone was both endearing and exhausted. “You have made many poor decisions. And you have made many good ones. And, regardless of whatever choices you have made, you—not the Boy-Who-Lived—are truly and dearly loved by _many_ people. Even those who would rather they did not care for you at all. We do not blame you for this. _I_ do not blame you for this. Not even Mrs. Malfoy—who was there and saw the whole thing—blames you for this. If anything, this is the fault of my inattention. I became so wrapped up in my scheming that I lost sight of other things.” 

He shifted on the edge of the bed so that he could face the boy fully. His eyes looked terribly sad. “Sometimes, we become so distracted by the potential in front of our faces, that we can forget the realities in the periphery, child. And when that happens, people and events often fall through the cracks. I have been overly attentive to some of the wrong things . . . in love with my own cleverness, in a way . . . and this situation is in part a result of that. You made a bad decision in following Draco outside. Draco made a bad decision in going to you instead of me and in disobeying his mother by taking you to the Wards. Mary made a bad decision in listening to Mr. Jasperstone and opening the Wards. Micah made a bad decision in following Voldemort. But I am the one who is responsible for the students’ safety. In the end, Harry, if anyone is responsible for what happened this past week, I am. Not you.”

“You’re only one man, sir,” the boy whispered softly.

“And you, dear boy, are only one child. You cannot bear the weight of the world alone. You need your friends. And your professors. And your confidence. You are not alone, Harry.” 

Albus smiled and turned slightly to the nightstand, from which he lifted the boy’s new glasses. He opened the metal arms and looked through the lenses for a moment before turning slightly back and gently sliding the silver rimmed spectacles on the boy’s face. Green eyes blinked several times as everything came into painfully sharp focus for the first time in several days.

The old man smiled at him sadly. “Sometimes, we have to be willing to see the things we would rather avoid in order to bring the world into proper focus.”

Harry looked up at him through the glasses in obvious consideration for a moment. Then he scooted over and curled up slightly around the Headmaster’s bent form. He lay down on the pillows again and closed his eyes. “I am not a child.” Somehow the statement sounded more sad than defiant. “And you’re not alone either, sir.”

Albus froze, unaccountably touched by the act, and then relaxed a bit. Without asking or being asked, he retrieved the book from the nightstand and opened it to the page marked by a black ribbon.

He took a deep breath and began to read aloud. “Once upon a time there was a handsome young wizard who longed to be able to communicate with hippogriffs. You see, his cousin’s aunt on his mother’s brother’s side had accidentally transfigured herself into a hippogriff one day and she was the only one who knew where the wizard’s favorite cauldron was.”

Harry relaxed into the mattress, ignoring the feel of the glasses digging into his face. He was exhausted and more than ready to submit and allow the drugs to carry him into a dreamless stupor. He closed his eyes and listened to the Headmaster’s voice, soaking in his mentor’s warmth as the elderly man regaled him about wizards and hippogriffs and Egyptian phoenixes. In his head, though, he tallied the names of his casualties up in an unspoken list. The headmaster may not blame him for Draco, but that said nothing about Goyle. Goyle, he’d actually killed. 

“The hippogriff was confused by this turn of events and demanded to be turned back into a wizard. But the phoenix . . .”

Now, two of those names were people who had actually died by his hands. The knowledge was strange—like a burn on his tongue that he couldn’t help but play with. He didn’t like killing people. And yet he kept doing it. He ran through the list over and over again. James. Lily. Sirius. Cedric. Draco. Goyle . . . And there were more still. 

_“How many more?”_

His own personal victims of time and circumstance.

Eventually, he fell into an exhausted, chemical induced sleep, lulled by the Headmaster’s voice and his own silent litany.

****

  


*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


_  
Friday November 8th, 1996   
_

__

  
**TRAGEDY STRIKES HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY – A HERO FALLS  
** \- Article by: Felicity Cauldron **  
Draco Malfoy, son of Lucuis Malfoy and Narcissa Black Malfoy, dies in an attempted attack on Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.** __  


Black banners hang in the Great Hall for the second time in three years. The students and staff are uncharacteristically somber as they once again mourn one of their own. Draco Malfoy, only son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black Malfoy, died on the evening of Tuesday November 5th, 1996, felled by a Death Eater curse. According to sources at the Ministry and at Hogwarts, the young Slytherin was struck down by the Killing Curse just outside the school’s Wards, attempting to prevent three Death Eaters from entering the grounds. Mr. Malfoy successfully thwarted the efforts of two suspected Death Eaters—Richard Goyle and Michael Avery—but the third as yet unidentified suspect managed to escape.  
Ministry Aurors who evaluated the scene on Tuesday night believe that Mr. Malfoy confronted the Death Eaters at the edge of the Wards and became involved in a scuffle. In the ensuing conflict, Mr. Goyle—who was also Draco Malfoy’s godfather—was killed by a Hot Flash Curse and Mr. Avery cast the Killing Curse on young Mr. Malfoy. The effort of casting was thought to be too much for Mr. Avery, who was also suffering a severe contusion from the conflict, and he died from magical exhaustion.  
“The Malfoy Family has long been suspected of having ties to the Dark, though these claims have yet to be substantiated,” said Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt in a news conference held by the Ministry this morning. “We believe that Draco Malfoy somehow intercepted plans to send a small attack squad or surveillance squad to Hogwarts from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and wanted to intercede the Death Eaters. At this point in the investigation, all the evidence we have points to the fact that Draco Malfoy died attempting to defend Hogwarts.” The Ministry is set to release an official brief of their findings at the end of next week.  
It is suspected that the Death Eaters were attempting to breach Hogwarts in order to kidnap Harry Potter for You-Know-Who, but neither Mr. Potter, nor any of the staff were able to comment on the veracity of these claims. However, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore reportedly had Mr. Potter removed to a safe location until the investigation of the Wards is completed.  
The Malfoy family has been believed to be involved with the business of You-Know-Who since Harry Potter survived the killing curse in October of 1981, and Lucius Malfoy was in fact arrested under suspicion of being a Death Eater last May after the attack on the Ministry. Draco Malfoy’s housemates in Slytherin reported that the young Malfoy heir had been acting strangely all year.  
“He wasn’t himself anymore,” said Blaise Zambini, a fellow Sixth Year Slytherin and heir to the Zambini Kwik Spells empire. “He didn’t want to socialize with his mates anymore and seemed preoccupied all year. We tried to help him, but you can only help those who will let you. We never suspected that he was involved in You-Know-Who, though. Never. Draco just wasn’t that kind of person.”  
A spokesman for the Malfoy family released this statement on Thursday morning:  
‘For hundreds of years the Malfoy family has stood as a pillar in our world. We have shared with you our joys and our sorrow. Now, when our sorrow surpasses all previous grief, we are particularly grateful for the outpouring of sympathy and all the letters and gifts we have received thus far. We know in our hearts that our Draco had nothing to do with the followers of You-Know-Who. He was a good and honest young man and our grief has known no depth since word of his murder reached us. Our only solace lies in that he died as he lived: a true example of heroism and loyalty, and we know that—though he is no longer here—he will live on so long as the school and the values he tried to protect still stands. _’  
According to Ministry sources, a scholarship is to be set up in Mr. Malfoy’s memory that will help poor children attend Hogwarts. An in-school memorial service was held on Thursday morning at Hogwarts and a private funeral is scheduled to be held on Saturday morning southwest of Obdan at Malfoy Manor._

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


 _“It was real nice.”_

The operant words of a funeral. _“It was real nice.”_

Lucius did not attend. Narcissa stood at the foot of the casket as a man from the Ministry droned on about all that Draco had accomplished and how sad it was when a young life was cut so tragically short. Because, as the man had said, ‘It is always tragic when a life ends, particularly that of a young man who had barely begun to live.’ 

The Malfoy matriarch did not weep.

It was Saturday and it was raining, large, cold, heavy drops of rain. Though magic shielded the guests from the actual rain, the coldness of it seemed to seep in through the invisible barrier the funeral director had been kind enough to erect. The whirlwind manner of the funeral preparations made the service seem abrupt and harried, though it really was nothing of the sort. Rumors and whispers started and were rapidly squelched about why Narcissa and Lucius were so desperate to inter their only son not even a week after his death, but nothing came of them. Actually, it seemed apparent that most of the guests were more interested in who was there than any sort of mourning.

The funeral was a Who’s-Who of social lights, despite the Malfoy House’s less than pristine reputation. After all, Draco Malfoy had died a hero. He had saved Hogwarts from a vicious attack by Death Eaters. At least, that’s what the Ministry and the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts had told the press. Cornelius Fudge was in attendance. He delivered a stirring eulogy about honor and sacrifice and the bravery of Draco’s generation. Rita Skeeter took quotes and her photographer took pictures of her next to the casket as she wore a long practiced expression of wistful grief she’d perfected just for the occasion.

Strangely enough, Harry Potter had also come to the funeral, though the two boys’ rivalry had been the stuff of legend. The wizarding world’s reserved little hero was dressed in slightly faded black robes and stood next to a somberly clad Professor Dumbledore. Both wizards seemed unnaturally tired and pale, but no one dared approach them. Anyone foolish enough to attempt to speak to them found themselves skillfully redirected by the aged Headmaster while Harry Potter simply stared at the closed oak coffin with empty eyes. Directly across from the two Gryffindors was Severus Snape. The Head of Slytherin wore surprisingly fancy ebony dress robes and stood with a large contingent of Slytherin upperclassmen. He looked even paler and thinner than usual—almost scarecrow-like, despite his stylish clothes . . . or perhaps it was because of them. The Slytherin children stood in respectful silence and stared, bored, into the distance when they thought no one was watching. 

However, most people probably would not have noticed if the whole lot of them expired from ennui right there. Even Snape, who was obviously their chaperone, seemed to be paying absolutely no attention to them, staring instead at the casket. If anyone had taken the time to stare for longer than an instant at the Potions Master, they would have no doubt seen the beaded rosary—so red it was black—that he clutched in his hands, or noticed his lips moving faintly in an unheard prayer. His long fingers worked over the beads as he stared impassively down at his former student’s casket, treading them through one dark bead at a time. As it was, no one saw, except perhaps the Headmaster and Harry Potter, who said nothing.

“Truly these _are_ dark days,” some official or another droned on.

To Snape’s left, Narcissa Malfoy’s face could have been carved from ice for all the coldness she emanated. Her eyes, though, seemed to burn as she stared down at her son’s final resting place. Someone had the poor taste to murmur ‘Where’s Master Malfoy?’ within the grieving woman’s hearing and, for a moment, her eyes flashed with barely suppressed violence and she seemed prepared to whirl around and seek out the person, but a thin, stained hand shot out and gripped her elbow before she could move. Her eyes flickered to Snape and she looked incredulous that he would dare touch her, so he quickly withdrew his hand and returned to worrying the beads. Angered beyond words, the woman averted her eyes and her body seemed to twist for a moment, loose and string-like. Her black finery whispered around her as she swayed, pale. Standing to her left, Harry Potter looked away and Headmaster Dumbledore closed his eyes.

“So young,” the man continued, sounding enamored of his own turns of phrase. “With so much strength and light inside him . . . The realization of potential—”

Harry took a careful step towards the woman, but then stopped and looked hopelessly lost for a moment.

The tired speaker finally wound up the last of his poorly constructed similes and left the foot of the casket to make room for the witch in charge of the funeral. The elderly woman, dressed in severe black robes and too much red lipstick, ordered all those present to hold hands. The crowd sorted themselves out into twelve concentric circles around the coffin with the primary mourners in the first circle. Harry’s cold, chapped hands were wrapped in special gloves to help his hands heal and his skin tingled as Mrs. Malfoy and Professor Dumbledore each grabbed a hand. He studiously avoided looking at anyone or thing for very long. Looking at Draco just made him feel ill and heavy and he had a curious lump in his throat. Still, it was not enough to overpower the rush of jealousy he felt when Severus finally tucked his rosary beads away and took Narcissa’s hand in one of his own.

He stared back at the coffin with a sour expression on his face.

The woman at the foot of the coffin began to chant in a language Harry had never heard and a feeling like a cold wind swept through him. His magic, not yet fully recovered, lurched heavily within him in response and he shivered. It felt like the bubbles of a fizzy drink sliding beneath his skin and it took a serious act of self control not to yank his hands back and cut himself off from the circle. Dumbledore squeezed his hand gently and the boy bit his lip hard enough to taste blood. It distracted him from the pull of magic pooling over the coffin.

The headmaster had explained before the ceremony that this would protect Draco’s body from grave robbers and from being used in spells. It was also supposed to alleviate the grief that the attendants of the funeral felt. The closer one stood to the coffin, the more of their magic was used in the spell, but the first row of people also benefited the most from the soothing properties of the ceremony. The old man nudged Harry a step forward and the Gryffindor took another reluctant step towards the coffin, making sure to pull Narcissa and Dumbledore with him. The feeling moved from fizzy drink bubbles to garden slugs sliding beneath his flesh. He clenched his teeth against a surge of nausea. 

Then it was over.

His hands were released so abruptly that Harry nearly fell and a wash of warmth moved through the boy, similar to the feeling he got from eating chocolate right after seeing a Dementor. He shivered at the sudden change in sensation. Across from him, Severus shuddered violently. 

For a moment the Potion Master’s eyes locked with his green ones and Harry looked Severus full in the face for the first time in nearly two weeks. The rosary beads slipped from the older man’s hand and fell to the fading green grass silently. Around them, people began to mill about and mutter to one another. Skeeter resumed taking quotes, Narcissa stepped away from the coffin, the funeral witch began to lower the coffin into the ground—spelling the earth to accept back one of its children, and Dumbledore stepped between Harry and a reporter. Severus and Harry merely stared at one another as the coffin was absorbed by the earth. There would be nothing as low class or muggle as digging done at a Malfoy’s funeral. 

It was not until the coffin had vanished and someone began to herd them back through the rain towards the Manor for refreshment that Severus broke eye contact to retrieve his beads. Harry drew in a sharp breath and looked away from his Professor as the man turned to usher his Slytherins back to the reception area. The boy looked around wildly, sure that someone had seen the two of them staring at one another and was going to find out that everything they’d been told about Draco’s death was a lie . . . But if anyone noticed, they didn’t say anything. After all, it really _was_ a very nice funeral.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


His glasses are on the mantel. Cracked and dirty, they stare at me in eyeless accusation as I sit before the fire in my lounge chair. Around me lies the wreck and ruin of my life: books, potions, knickknacks, and broken glass all carelessly strewn across the floor. It is a disaster. I don’t care.

Draco Malfoy is dead.

Draco Malfoy is dead.

Repeating it does not change the reality of the situation, yet still I find it hard to fathom. Over the arm of my chair, I have draped Potter’s invisibility cloak. Atop it sit my rosary beads. I have not removed those beads from my armoire in fifteen years. I put them away the day I heard word of the Dark Lord’s supposed defeat. I was twenty-two and stupid then. Thirty-seven and stupid does not seem very different at all. 

No. Scratch that. Thirty-seven is very different. Thirty-seven is forced Occlumency lessons, and Lady Narcissas who won’t give me the time of day, and Hogwarts funerals, and mourning Slytherins, and pale, hospitalized Harry Potters, and impetuous Draco Malfoys whom I had a hand in destroying.

Draco Malfoy is dead. 

I gave him to Albus Dumbledore and now he’s dead. I wonder where Lucius is and if he hates me for failing to do as he asked. I can only protect one person at a time, though, and that person is currently alive and well and ensconced in the red and gold of Gryffindor Tower. The Dark Mark on my left arm throbs in a way that is not quite painful, as though reminding me of that fact. I ignore it. One person at a time, Severus. Yet none of this changes the fact that Draco Malfoy is dead, and if I didn’t feel so bloody empty and strung out, I’d be reeling from the knowledge.

My eyes fix on the glasses again and I shift, knocking the blood red rosary beads to the floor. I turn to look at them, and instead find myself looking at the cloak. The cloak. _Harry Potter’s_ cloak. 

Quite a collection I have going here . . . Glasses stolen off an unconscious and wounded boy, and an irreplaceable cloak confiscated from said boy, both occupying my chambers . . . An incomplete collection.

I wonder what Potter has told people about the cloak. Everyone believes the spectacles to have been lost in the brainlessly epic battle on Tuesday. There were no questions and in all the fuss and bother of bustling Potter into the Hospital Wing and finding the Creevey girl unconscious on the lawn, no one noticed something as silly as a pair of glasses vanishing into my robes. Once Pomfrey had me on a bed and filled to the gills with numbing potions and chocolate, no one noticed me at all. Minerva apparently handles finding a hysterical, bloodied Potter lying on the ground with two corpses and an unconscious Death Eater much better than I do. 

But the cloak is something different. I never told anyone I still had it . . . Though Albus knows. Albus knows everything. Bastard. Even the Dark Lord thinks Potter still has it—my little reports have taken care of that. How on earth would I explain clinging to the damn thing like a security blanket to a creature who is more snake than man? Although, if the student were anyone other than Potter, my dear mad Lord would probably laugh himself into a stupor over my questionable tactics of seduction. 

But what did Potter tell everyone?

He lost it? 

He dropped it?

He forgot it when he was fleeing his Potions Master after being sexually assaulted?

Does it even matter? 

I have it and it’s mine now and I have never once in my life willingly relinquished what is mine.

Why do I still _have_ this thing, though?

I lower my water filled brandy snifter to the ground and then straighten and run my now free hand over the cool, liquid-like fabric. 

Potter . . . My wide-eyed, flawed, battered Harry Potter . . .

Surely, this cloak has as many lives as that impetuous, thrice-damned Gryffindor. It miraculously survived my tantrums last week . . . And this week . . . And tonight. I would blame it on Albus, or Potter— _Harry_ —or Merlin himself if I could, but I cannot. Neither Albus, nor Harry— _POTTER!_ —nor Merlin made me cherish this silly bit of silky silver. They do not know I treasure this stupid thing—touch it because _he_ touched it . . . Feel it because I can feel him in the very thread.

What have I become?

I bite my lip and shift uncomfortably, slouching in my seat. My breath quickens and the feel of the cloak overwhelms my shame.

I tell myself I am _not_ seriously considering sitting alone in my quarters and wanking off while fondling Potter’s cloak. James Potter’s cloak. Whatever. Never mind that it smells like Harry . . . _feels_ like Harry—

_POTTER!!_

I need a drink. 

Instead, I take a sip of water, remove a butterscotch from an inner pocket in my robes, and pop it into my mouth. The candy was a gift from Albus, one of an immense bag that now sits on the corner of my desk. For some reason, the old git’s been experimenting with new candies. I’ve seen neither hair nor hide of a single lemon drop since before I left for the Manor. That has to be a record of some sort.

Of course, I try not to think about _why_ the old man felt the need to unload this particular sweet off on me. Even imagining the possibilities makes me vaguely ill . . . and obscenely jealous. Which is so very wrong.

Because it tastes like just like him. His kisses. His breath as I pressed him hard against the stone wall and entangled my legs between his. Felt that wonderful hardness growing and heard those breathy little pants and groans . . . I could grow fond of muggle sweets, I think.

Fuck you, Albus.

I spit the candy into my palm and toss it into the fireplace. The remaining offending stickiness is wiped onto my dress robes. 

Funeral robes.

Gods _above_ , I need a _drink_.

I need to _not_ be thinking about pressing Harry Potter against my wall and tearing off his clothes and—

I lick my lips and taste butterscotch.

My legs spread of their own volition and the folds of the cloak feel like silk in my hand. Green eyes on my skin. I lift my hips in a subtle thrust and my lips part soundlessly. Silk in my hand. I wipe my other hand, still sticky from the candy, on my robes again and the scent of butterscotch permeates the air.

Merlin.

He would beg. Twist and whimper and try to force my hands to go where he wanted them. But I am in control and he is _mine_ to do with as _I_ see fit.

_**MINE.** _

My right hand clutches at the cloak, trying to grab at something solid—something to keep me grounded—and my treacherous left hand drifts towards my inner thigh. I tip my head back, stare at a distant ceiling, and slip my left hand between the wide spaces of my buttons and into my robes. The buttons on my pants slide out from their holes with ease and at last, at last, I feel the achingly familiar feel of hardened flesh. The cloak feels cool between my fingers and I feel so overwhelmingly _hot_ and Harry felt like petals and smelling like dusty places and power and butterscotch.

My eyes close, the cloak slips from between my fingers, and there a quiet moan that isn’t his, but could have been because he trembled so perfectly and looked so scared. I could have caught up those bird-thin wrists and pinned him against the wall and torn off those stupid pants and those thin, schoolboy briefs and _felt_ that heat in my hand while he writhed and panted like a two knut whore. 

_‘Professor—Severus!’_

_God . . ._

He’d be loud. Those soft little pants would become moans and then cries while I pressed and took and _claimed_ because he’s _mine_ and no one else will take him or have him because no one else can keep him and dear Merlin, I want—

“ _Harry!_ ”

And he’s mine . . .

The pleasure is vulgar and I shudder as it washes through me, accepting what I can take. But the reality of masturbation is sticky, sweaty, and pungent. And cold. Opening my eyes and remembering that I’m alone and Harry’s not here and Draco is dead, and there is a bag of uneaten butterscotches on my desk is cold. I am cold.

And alone.

My left hand slides out of my pants and I look away from the slime congealing there. It is an effort to ignore the cooling clamminess sliding down my thigh and staining my pants with heavy wetness. Unstained, my right hand flies up to cover my nose and mouth and block the stench, forcing back the wave of sickness that washes through me.

The pleasure is vulgar.

And my lower jaw is trembling.

And I want Harry.

I push myself to my feet and walk with uneasy steps to my shower, shedding robes and shirt and undershirt along the way. The light in the bathroom flares on as I enter and I kick my shoes off towards the wall. They hit the toilet instead and roll clumsily in opposite directions. I jerk off my socks and toss them behind me towards my bedroom and my pants hit the ground next. I step naked into the shower and shiver.

“This pleasure is vulgar.”

The words echo off of the marble and bounce back at me in accusation. I close my eyes and water bursts from the ceiling of the shower chamber with a muttered spell. Hot water runs through greasy hair and slides down my face as I close my eyes and drop my head. I lean forward, resting one forearm against the wall to support myself, and feel the tension of the day and the commingled scents of semen and post-funeral buffet biscuits run off my skin and down the drain. Again, my free hand drifts up to my gradually reawakening erection and I see a vivid green gaze in my mind’s eye. My hand tightens and I gasp as water flows down over my closed eyes and the bridge of my nose.

This pleasure is vulgar. My hips thrust into my own hand and I bite down on my fist. This pleasure is vulgar, but remembering how green his eyes were this morning, and how pale he looked against the white sheets of the Hospital Wing, I cannot for the life of me recall why.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


“As you requested. I have not told your parents or your brothers what has happened, Mary. They believe you to be here due to a Potions accident.”

The girl looked up from where she was drumming her fingers on her thigh. Albus looked back at her with sad blue eyes. There was long, uncomfortable moment of silence, then youngest Creevey child turned away from the headmaster and stared back at her hand. Her eyes had an unnaturally glazed look to them and her movements seemed wooden and marionette-like, as though she couldn’t quite control her own body: the aftereffects of Veritaserum.

“Mary, tell me why you opened the Wards.”

She did not look up, but when she spoke her voice was whispery and thin. “He left the first night of term. I was in the Common Room . . . there was no one there when I looked up, but the Portrait hole opened and closed. I don’t think he knew I was there.” Her eyes grew distant as she stared downwards, as though watching the events play out on her skin. “I followed him out. Dennis always said that he had an invisibility cloak, but I wanted to see it for myself . . . I got lost though. Peeves chased me into the dungeons with dung bombs yelling about Filch.” Her dark brown eyes, red rimmed and swollen, flickered up to the man by her bedside. “I was wandering around when I heard them talking. I snuck up to the door and saw him and Snape . . . they were ki—”

“What did you do then?” Dumbledore interrupted gently.

A shudder wracked the girl’s small frame and for a moment it looked as through she was going to expel the Veritaserum. Then she leaned back, limp and perspiring.

“She’s not ready for this, Headmaster,” Poppy snapped, looking agitated. “I _told_ you—” 

“We must resolve this as soon as possible, Poppy,” Albus responded with an exhausted sigh. He sat back in his seat, looking old and tired. “So long as Harry’s guardianship is in the air, we cannot afford to have too much inquiry into Harry’s behavior. If the Board discovers his involvement in yet another disruption—particularly the death of another student—he will be expelled. If that happens, he will surely become a ward of the Ministry. We cannot give Fudge any opportunities to fight my application.” He paused to rub the bridge of his nose tiredly, craving a lemon drop. “In fact the less he knows, the better,” he resumed quietly. “If the Minster gains unlimited access to Harry, we may as well hand the world over to Voldemort on a platter.”

The matronly woman looked up from where she was monitoring the child’s pulse. Her stern features were set in an unhappy frown. “Still, she is only a child . . .”

“Who could destroy everything we have worked for over the past fifteen years if she is not brought to heel,” the old man countered. 

The mediwitch looked away, still disquieted, but unable to argue with him. 

Albus watched the child’s pinched face in somber silence for a long moment. “Is she well?” 

Poppy stood, looking deeply unhappy. “Well enough to continue. But not for too much longer. She’s very delicate; her body has received a nasty shock.”

Albus nodded and leaned forward, carefully watching Mary. The very last thing he ever wanted to do was endanger one of the children under his care, but if Mary said the wrong thing to the wrong people, she could endanger them all. “Mary, what did you do then?”

A pained gasp left Mary’s lips as the potion forced her to answer him and she slowly sat upright again. It broke the Headmaster’s heart to see her suffering so.

“I ran,” the girl whispered. “I was headed out of the dungeon when he came running up behind me. He knocked me down—didn’t even see me there. Micah found me in the hallway the next morning. He said he was out for a ‘constitutional.’” A slow, sad smile spread over Mary’s lips and a single, heavy tear slid down her cheek. “He said I was pretty.”

“Micah Jasperstone?”

Mary nodded slowly. “Yes. I was crying when he found me. I didn’t know he was a Slytherin, but he was nice and asked me what was wrong. I told him everything. He said that he wanted to help me.”

Albus tugged at his beard, looking disturbed. “And this all happened the first night of term?”

“Yes. He told me to keep an eye on Harry—that we had to protect him. He said—he said that Harry needed us . . . We were going to be heroes.”

Albus nodded and stood, turning to the mediwitch. “I believe that I have enough now. But, until we know everything that she saw, I may need to speak with her again.” 

Poppy nodded and made no effort to hide her relief at being able purge the potion from the tiny girl’s system. “There are gentler ways than Obliviate, anyway. I doubt her mind could handle something like that right now.”

He watched the child for a long moment. “It really is for the best this way. She does not need to deal with this pain on top of everything else. And if anyone ever knew what she’d done, she would be tossed into Azkaban.” Part of Fudge’s election platform had been a hard line against crime—even juvenile crime. Azkaban was open to everyone now, not just adults.

The Headmaster nodded as though affirming the words to himself and cast the child one more somber look before turning to go. A small hand, however, gently touched his wrist and he turned back, arrested by the motion.

Large, doe-like eyes looked up at him and Mary’s lower lip trembled delicately. “I only wanted him to like me.”

Albus patted the girl’s hand and gently disengaged himself. He looked back up at Poppy, his eyes weary. “I’ve no doubt I can fully trust your discretion regarding these matters.”

The woman snorted and waved him off tiredly as she bent to administer the serum antidote. “Been cleaning up your messes for years now, Albus. Don’t know what else I can do anymore.” 

His lips quirked towards a wry smile and he turned and left, somber black funeral robes swaying gently with the motion of his body.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


It was too late at night to be worrying about this sort of thing. Still, as Minerva rubbed her eyes and frowned down the notes she’d copied, she felt no desire to go to bed. Perhaps she was too tired to sleep.

It was a whim that had set her to looking it up. An offhand comment from Poppy: _“Anhur? That’s odd. He called Severus that once before—when he was in here for his Blue Lotus allergy at the end of September.”_

So she had gone to the Library and set about doing some research of her own. It had been in the Ancient Myths and Magic section under ‘Egyptian Culture.’ Even now, looking down at the scroll of information she’d copied down, she couldn’t totally squelch the ominous feeling in her stomach. 

_Anhur –_

_“He who brings back the Distant One.” “The Slayer of Enemies.” “Sky Bearer.” “He who leads that which has gone away.” Sky god. God of the dead. God of War. The divine huntsman of This in Upper Egypt. The Champion of Egypt. The beloved one of Mehit (Mekhit). Said to be the violent side of the Sun God, Ra. More commonly known as Onouris in the Greek—identified by the Greeks with Aries. His consort was the lioness goddess Mehit (Mekhit; also later identified with Hathor, Sekhmet, and Bastet). He stands in the prow of the sun god Ra’s boat as “Slayer of Enemies.” Usually manifested as a human male (though he has been depicted as having a lion’s head), Anhur is shown as a warrior wearing a headdress with four plumes. He wears a long embroidered robe and carries a spear. Sometimes he holds a cord leading the sun._

_In the earlier legend of the Distant Goddess, Anhur was credited with returning the Eye of Ra to Egypt after the Ra and the goddess quarreled. The goddess—in the form of Mehit—fled to the Nubia. Anhur was sent to retrieve her and acted as her protector, returning the prodigal goddess to Heliopolis and saving her from a serpent of chaos sent to assassinate her as she slept. After this, Anhur took Mehit as his consort. Later legends replace Mehit with Hathor and Anhur with Thoth._

Minerva worried her lower lip for a moment, staring at the parchment. Where Potter would have heard the word ‘Anhur’ or _why_ he would called Severus that was a mystery, but it left a peculiar taste in her mouth. There was something about the whole situation that just settled wrong with her, though she couldn’t place her finger on it.

The Transfiguration Professor ran a finger over the words on the parchment, the not-quite-dried ink smudging lightly beneath her touch. She was bloody _tired_ of being too little too late. Never, in all the years she’d known Severus, had she ever seen him react as he had when they found Potter lying on the Forest floor. He’d seemed more agitated about Potter than he was over Mr. Malfoy’s disappearance . . . at least he had, until Albus had appeared and informed them all that Mr. Malfoy was dead. Then the Potions Master had simply shut down, gone completely white, and gotten out of the bed Poppy’d assigned him and staggered off to the dungeons. 

Albus’s refusal to hear anything on the subject of Severus’s increasingly bizarre behavior only made her more curious . . . and more agitated. And she could swear that she’d caught the man leaving Potter’s room in the Hospital Wing more than once during the boy’s confinement. _Something_ was obviously going on with their resident spy and it seemed that no one even cared that the man was falling apart at the seams.

Perhaps it was time she did a bit of spying of her own. When Severus had first returned to teach, she’d sworn to herself that she’d look out for him this time. She’d always felt at least somewhat responsible that she’d never been able to fully reign in Sirius and James—especially when Sirius was sent to Azkaban. Maybe she could have prevented that if she’d been a bit firmer with the boys . . . or maybe not. Regrets could only go so far, and in the end they really accomplished nothing.

But now she had a new mystery on her hands—one involving her two biggest headaches: Severus Snape and Harry Potter. Perhaps she could kill two birds with one stone.

A slight cough made the woman start and she jerked her hand off the scroll. On the corner of her desk, Albus Dumbledore’s chocolate frog card looked at her in slight reprove, bushy eyebrows lowered sharply. 

“Curiosity killed the cat, my dear,” the portrait chided.

Minerva sniffed at the presumptuous candy card and picked it up as she opened the top drawer of her desk. “Satisfaction brought her back,” she retorted airily before dropping the card face down into the drawer.

Albus’s portrait let out a muffled squeak of indignation and Minerva tossed her scroll of notes in atop him. She closed the drawer and locked it with a powerful spell and then stood to return to her quarters, quietly muttering “ _Nox_ ” as she left to go to bed.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


‘ _  
**ARTICLE FIVE HUNDRED TWENTY THREE, PROVISION TWO**   
_

_Never, in any circumstance, shall it be lawful for any professor, staff, or faculty member under the employ of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to engage in any sexual or other otherwise inappropriate interpersonal congress with any Hogwarts student. Such relationships are grossly unequal and against all interest of fairness and education. In the event of such occurrences, the staff member is to be immediately relieved of their post and given over to the justice of the Ministry, or the comparable governmental body in power, and the student is to be expelled and returned to their guardian. There will be no exceptions to this rule._ ”

Harry slammed the book closed and stared fixedly at the fire. No matter how hot or cold it was, there was always a fire burning in here now. Dobby’s work, no doubt. He’d mentioned a week and a half ago how much he enjoyed looking at the flames and since then the Elf had kept the fire burning almost constantly. It seemed unreal that he had only a week and a half ago been laying in bed, an emotional wreck over Severus. 

Now . . . Well, now he was sitting in the Common Room, an exhausted wreck. Though this time it was no one’s fault but his own.

The clock on the Common Room wall read 1:15 in the morning, but Harry was not the least bit tired. He’d tried to sleep, but had only tossed and turned, feeling alternately too hot or too cold. Once two hours had passed, he’d simply pulled on a school night robe he’d tossed onto his night stand and trudged down to the Common Room in just his robe and pajama bottoms. After sleeping for almost two days straight, he didn’t much think he’d be sleeping again for a while. Besides, if he went to sleep he’d only have nightmares. Madame Pomfrey had nearly had kittens when she found out he’d been taking Dreamless Sleep for most of the term.

_“But I only take it when I need it!”_

_“You shouldn’t need it at all, Potter! I don’t know what sorts of things those relatives of yours have told you, but puberty is a very important time for a wizard. Your body is trying to find a balance right now to help you cultivate your full potential. Taking a potion constantly without professional supervision can throw that balance off very easily. Not to mention that wizarding potions are very different than muggle medicines: a body can become dependant on them very easily—even those that are not addictive. Potions change the magical distribution in the body. You’re lucky you haven’t managed to do permanent damage to yourself! Now hush and let me check to see if those hands of your hands are healing properly. You’ll be after that snitch again in no time!”_

His hands were sheathed in black gloves, the insides of which were coated in a special healing potion that would help his skin grow back. Magical burns were more like chemical burns than fire burns and simple spells and potions were not enough to heal them. His hands would require time. Like his other remaining wounds, the burns had originated from within and thus would have to heal slowly. Still, Madame Pomfrey had worked wonders and, though it was still pink and untried, new skin had already grown to replace the ruined, burnt skin he’d damaged. 

One black-sheathed forefinger ran over the golden lettering on the cover of the book: _Hogwarts: A History_. He’d taken it from Sirius’s house before he’d left. On the inside cover the words ‘ _To Regulus from Mummy. Congratulations._ ’ were written in faded green ink. Before he’d opened it, the spine had never even been cracked. He’d genuinely intended to read it when he took it—Hermione never stopped praising the book—but somehow, after reading the rules in the back index, he could never quite bring himself to go through the whole book.

‘ _In the event of such occurrences, the staff member is to be immediately relieved of their post and given over to the justice of the Ministry, or the comparable governmental body in power, and the student is to be expelled and returned to their guardian. There will be no exceptions to this rule._ ’

The letters shined dully in the reddish fire light for a long moment, and then Harry stood, walked calmly over to the hearth, and tossed the book into the flames. The oily smell of burning leather immediately filled the room as the enormous volume was consumed. Harry leaned heavily against the mantel and watched in silence. His head ached. 

_Harry slipped into the workroom, his robes swirling around his ankles as he turned to close the door. Snape looked up and froze. “Get out.”_

_The boy paused and turned. “We need to talk.”_

_“We have nothing to say to one another, Potter.” The man looked down at whatever potion he was brewing, obviously considering the conversation over. “Leave.”_

_Harry balled his hands into fists and stalked over to the table to stand in font of the professor. He reached out and gripped the hand stirring the potion, forcing Snape to look up at him. The man’s mouth twisted into a sneer, and there was a curiously wild light in his eyes. “Pott—”_

_“My name is Harry,” the Gryffindor ground out evenly. “And we_ need _to talk.”_

_Snape jerked his hand out from beneath Harry’s and rubbed his fingers as though burnt. “Fine. Do you want me to apologize? To say I led you astray? I apologize then. Go to Professor McGonagall or the Headmaster and confess to them my sins—”_

_“Leave off the tired martyrdom already! Do you really enjoy being the victim that much?”_

_Snape leaned over the cauldron slightly, looming over Harry, and gripped the metal edge with white-knuckled fists. “How dare—”_

_“We both know that you didn’t lead me anywhere,” the youth snapped before he could get going. “If I had wanted to tell anyone I would have. I didn’t, though. All I want is you.”_

_“I feel all fluttery,” the man snarled in response. He whirled around, his back to Harry, and stalked determinedly around the table towards the fire. “I am not discussing this.”_

_Harry growled in frustration. “Stop running away from me!”_

_The Potions Master spun to face him again, his robes swirling about his ankles as he did so. “Then stop hounding me! We will not do this!”_

_“We already have! I want—”_

_“It doesn’t matter what you want, you dunderhead!”_

_“It does!” Harry snapped back, sounding terribly petulant._

_“Oh?” Snape all but hissed. “And I get no choice in this?”_

_“You’ve made your choice,” the Gryffindor replied in a surprisingly level voice. “Now it’s my turn and I know what I want.” He walked forward towards the man, arms raised as though preparing to grab the professor. “Why are you fighting this so much?”_

_Snape recoiled, plainly horrified. “Stop this now!”_

_Harry halted his advance, startled by the action, but his mouth remained set in a grim line. “No. Not this time. You don’t get to tell me what to do this time. I’m not running away. Not anymore.”_

_For a moment it looked like Snape wanted hit him, or strangle him, or_ something _and an angry red flush crept up the man’s neck and stained his cheeks. He made a growling noise low in the back of his throat and shuddered as though trying to collect himself. “Don’t you understand anything?” His voice was a rough whisper. “This has nothing to do with you or with me. This is_ WRONG _, Potter. Wrong in every sense of the word.”_

_Harry’s eyes narrowed and he planted his feet on the ground, as though the act could help him maintain his position. “I don’t believe that.”_

_“It doesn’t matter what you believe.” Snape turned away then and rubbed a hand over his face. He looked tired. The fire crackled. “It doesn’t matter in the least . . .”_

_“It does,” Harry whispered, staring fixedly at the man’s back. “It does because I can’t sleep at night and I can’t eat and I can’t bloody think because you’re in my head and that has to mean something!” He ended with a gasp and looked down, startled to see his hands were clenched into fists at his sides._

_“It means that you are an obsessive drama queen and I want nothing to do with you,” the man sneered coldly._

_Anger danced across the boy’s face and he took a step forward, grabbed Snape’s upper arm and attempted to pull the man around to face him. “I’ll not be chased away just because you’ve gotten in over your head!”_

_Snape spun about under his own power, nearly knocking Harry down with the motion. His eyes seemed to glow and something like rage twisted his features. “I **cannot** do this!!”_

_“You will! You can’t just do this to me and walk away!”_

_“Stupid child!” Snape snarled, advancing on him. Harry stepped back in a hasty retreat and felt his backs of knees hit the chair in the center of the room._

_“Idiot boy,” the Potions Master raged, “do you have any idea what you are getting into? Any idea at all? I am 37 years old. I am a Death Eater. I am your bloody Professor! And I will not be browbeaten by some silly, hormonal child!”_

_Harry froze, staring into the man’s eyes. Despite his tone, the look in Snape’s eyes was the exact same one the man had given him before he’d kissed him: hunger. The memory calmed the Gryffindor and he licked his lips unconsciously. Snape’s gaze flickered then, darting towards the sight of Harry’s tongue darting back into his mouth. His pupils dilated._

_Harry’s spine stiffened and he gave the man a level look. “Then throw me out.” His eyes glittered challengingly. “Throw me out. Or better yet, look me in the eye and tell me that this was all some kind of dream, or daymare, or fantasy, and I’ll leave and never come back.” He took a slow step forward and gently reached out and pressed his palm against Snape’s chest. “Tell me you don’t want me here.”_

_The man’s body was hotter than a furnace and beneath Harry’s palm his heart thundered like that of a trapped animal._

_Snape looked down at the hand pressed against his chest and closed his eyes wearily. “. . . I don’t want you here, Mr. Potter.”_

_“My name is Harry.” The teen dropped his hand heavily. “And you didn’t look me in the eye.”_

_Snape sagged in defeat. “What do you want of me?”_

_“I told you that I wasn’t leaving until you listened to me,” Harry said softly. He looked down at the floor, feeling sick with frustration. “And I’m not going to let you just throw me out.” A deep shuddering breath. He turned back to the work table, unable to look at the man as he spoke. “So listen: I . . . I **want** things. And I don’t always understand it, but I want them. And I do stupid thing and don’t think things through. And I’ve hurt you and I’m not really sure what I’m getting into . . . But I’ve thought about this—really thought about it—and I **want** this.” He watched the firelight play dully off the curves of the cauldron as he spoke, and felt Snape’s heat behind him. “ **I want you.** And every single instinct I have inside me tells me that this is right and that this is the way things are supposed to be. I know I leap before I look. And I’m too curious. And I can’t let go of something once I have it. But this isn’t like that. This is something . . . different. And I want to see what it is. So stop arguing with me and stop condemning yourself over things that I’ve already decided on.”_

_The Potter heir turned slightly, expecting see Snape relent . . . look contrite . . ._ anything _. . . Instead, the man just looked furious._

_“Do you have any idea what you are asking me? Any idea at all? This is not some game! This is my job! My **life**!! Are you trying to kill me as well?”_

_Harry froze and all the blood drained from his face. “Is that really what you think of me?”_

_For a moment Snape didn’t answer. Then his eyes hardened into dark, frozen chips. “Don’t do this, Harry.”_

_“Why did you start this?” the boy demanded, looking utterly bewildered._

_There was no response. The fire wheezed and crackled loudly._

_“Severus?”_

_Silence._

_Harry’s eyes narrowed, suspiciously bright, and his hands balled into fists again. “Sirius was right about you; you’re such a fucking coward.”_

_Snape moved so fast, Harry wasn’t even aware of what had happened until he hit the floor, the wind knocked out of him. His glasses skittered across the uneven dungeon stones and a hand flew to cover his burning cheek, the loud ringing ‘_ crack _’ resonating in his ears._

_For a moment, the two stared at one another, frozen. Snape’s sallow face was utterly white and his hand was still raised from when he’d slapped the boy. A bit of wetness tracked its way down Harry’s cheek._

_And then Snape scooped him up, trembling arms wrapped ‘round him, suffocating him under the sweet, sour, chemical smell of potions. Arms holding him tight—painfully tight—but holding him and not letting him go._

_“Why did you make me do that?” The words were whispered in his hair and Harry buried his face into the slope of the man’s throat and clutched at his lapels as Snape all but collapsed into a chair. “Can’t you see that this isn’t going to work? Can’t you—”_

_One of Harry’s hands suddenly snaked up to Snape’s thick, greasy hair and jerked the man’s head down towards him, clumsily pressing their lips together._

_Snape jerked his head away, but his arms tightened. Harry opened his eyes and made a little whimper of protest, pulling Snape’s lips back down to his. If he could just kiss him, just make him_ feel _—_

_And it was painfully obvious that he had no clue what he was doing, but then Snape’s mouth moved over his and teeth caught his lower lip gently and someone’s lips (his?) parted in a quiet gasp._

_Snape jerked away again, and his body twisted as though trying to stand and dump Harry on the ground and not quite making it._

_“Have you lost all reason?! We cannot—”_

And then the door had opened. Then Draco had walked in. Then absolutely everything had gone wrong.

“Was that my first mistake?” he murmured to the flames. “Pushing him like that? If I had never gone down there, would Draco still be alive?”

The fire did not reply.

Was it really only a few weeks ago that they had shared those kisses. That Draco had been alive. That he had _thought_ —

_“Out, you sodding fool! Never speak of this again!”_

Afterwards Severus had been so bitter . . . So cruel and hateful to everyone—Harry especially. It was all so messed up. Severus blamed Harry for Draco. Harry blamed Draco for Severus. And Draco had just wanted to help his family. 

If he hadn’t been so _stupid_ —! If he hadn’t lost his temper when he’d seen Jasperstone using the Cruciatus Curse. If he hadn’t—

“Harry?”

The brunet started and whirled around to see Hermione and Ron standing at the foot of their respective dormitory stairs. “What are you two doing up?”

Hermione flushed. “I . . . ah . . . smelled a book burning . . .”

Green eye blinked owlishly behind new glasses. “You _smelled_ a book burning?”

“The leather . . .” She cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably. “It has a distinctive smell because of the way they cure it.”

The two boys eyed her with incredulity, prompting Hermione to blush even darker. She huffed, wrapping her robe tighter around her body, and flounced over to sit in the arm chair Harry had just vacated. “Oh, shut it.” Her hazel eyes flashed as she turned to Ron. “And what are you doing up?”

He shrugged and sauntered over to the chair next to Hermione’s, stretching as he went. “I woke up and Harry was gone.” He said it as though the response was entirely self-explanatory . . . and maybe it was.

Ron’s concern, which probably would have been galling from anyone else, made Harry smile and he eyed the redhead appraisingly. His friend had grown up a lot over the past few years—especially now that he and Hermione were a couple. She seemed to bring out the best in him and make him a lot more mature, while he mellowed her harsh, uncompromising edges. Harry’s sharp gaze was met by an equally measuring blue-eyed look from his best friend and the brunet rolled his shoulders uncomfortably and looked away, wondering what the other teen saw. He stepped over to the side of the fireplace and slid to the floor, back against the wall. He crossed his legs underneath him, Indian-style, and found himself staring at Hermione’s slightly worn white slippers.

With a nearly inaudible sigh, Harry stuck his hand in his robe pocket. Even through the glove, he could feel the warmth of his wand. It reminded him of Fawkes’s song somehow—like coming home. He flicked it in his pocket. “ _Silencio._ ” He took his hand out of his pocket and scratched the back of his head, feeling a bit sheepish. “I couldn’t sleep,” he murmured.

Hermione crossed her ankles and the red flannel sweep of her nightgown fell over the tops of her slippers. “Your potion?”

Harry shrugged, feeling the stone scratch his back lightly through his thin night robe. He pulled the robe closed over his bare chest, but it fell back open again. “Pomfrey found out I was on Dreamless Sleep and gave me an earful over it.” He smiled wryly. “I think she’s getting tired of my company. This was, after all, the third time I’ve been in there since the start of term.”

Ron snorted softly. “We told you not to take it every night, you prat.”

Hermione made a clicking noise with her tongue that seemed to have preceded every single lecture she’d given them this year and Harry interrupted her before she could get going. The last thing he wanted right now was a lecture. “It was either take the potion every night, or spend the day walking around like a Dementor.”

“You could have really messed yourself up, Harry,” Hermione snapped, still ruffled. “You need to take better care of yourself than this.”

He waved away her concern. “I’m _fine_. Anyway, Pomfrey says it will be a few days yet before my body and magic rebounds and my sleeping patterns correct themselves.” He shrugged again. “I’m okay.”

Ron was still staring at him. “You really okay, mate? With everything, I mean . . .”

Harry looked away. “Yeah . . . I’m okay. The funeral was today. It was . . . nice.” He nibbled on his lower lip for a moment and stared down. The fire crackled next him and his left side felt suddenly hot, thought the right remained cold. He rubbed his arms through his sleeves. “I spoke to Mrs. Malfoy afterwards . . . She’s doing . . . alright, I guess . . . all things considered.”

Hermione shifted in her seat, toed off her slippers, and tucked her legs beneath her. The motion displayed a long, pale expanse of leg that Ron eyed appreciatively without seeming to even notice. The girl pushed a few fly away strands of hair out of her eyes. “What really happened? Dumbledore said that he wanted to keep it all mum . . . We couldn’t even tell anyone else that you were in the Hospital Wing.”

Ron’s gaze flickered to Harry from where he’d been eyeing a sliver of ankle showing beneath Hermione’s gown. “If we hadn’t been waiting for him in his office, he probably would have brushed us off. As it was, we already got the run around.” There was a strange undertone to his voice—something flat—but only Hermione noticed. 

Harry simply continued studying the ground. For just an instant . . . one _split_ instant . . . he almost told them everything. The Prophecy. The fight in the woods. Severus. The funeral. All of it.

But then the moment passed and the silence had stretched for far too long, and the he was still hot and cold and it was getting late. His eyes turned to the clock on the wall. Getting later. 

He sighed heavily and untucked his legs, switching so that he was sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest. “I’m not supposed to—”

“Talk about it,” Ron finished, sounding put out.

“Ron,” Hermione warned.

Harry looked up in irritation and felt a little sliver of anger worm its way through the core of him. “Can we not do this tonight? Please Ron?”

Ron glared at the smaller boy for a moment before pushing himself out of his chair in disgust. “We were worried about you, Harry. Hermione was practically in tears when we realized that you still hadn’t come up after an hour.”

Hermione flushed dusky rose. “Ron, knock it off!”

Harry pushed himself up off the ground. Ron already towered over him, even when he wasn’t angry. Pissed, the redhead seemed to be twice as big. It galled Harry that he had to tip his head back to stare Ron in the eyes.

 _An hour? A whole hour? After you said half an hour? What were you doing before that?_ He bit the inside of his cheek to keep back the words. He didn’t need a goddamn minder—he’d never had one, never wanted one, and never needed one.

So why did it sting so badly?

He looked away from Ron and felt that awful lump in his throat return to his throat. Hermione was standing behind the taller boy now, one hand on his forearm as though restraining him. Harry’s eyes met hers and he looked back up at Ron. He wanted someone standing behind him, too.

He swallowed the lump in his throat. “Why are you so upset?”

Ron’s ears turned red—never a good sign. “What? My best bloody friend—who’s shut up tighter than a clam, by the way—lands himself in the Hospital Wing for three days and then shows up looking like a necromancer’s chew toy and I’m not supposed to worry? Merlin’s blood, Harry, you _could have died_ —don’t you get that? And now you come back and barely even speak to us? Okay, so you can’t tell us what happened to land you in the Infirmary. Okay, so you don’t want to talk about Sirius.” Harry flinched, but Ron continued undeterred. “Okay, so you won’t tell us what happened at the muggles, but you have to tell us _something_!”

Harry squeezed his fists tight, his tender skin grating against the gloves with the motion, and used the resulting discomfort to ground himself. “What do you want me to say?” The firelight reflected weirdly off his lenses, totally obscuring his eyes.

“I want you stop bloody _hiding_ from us!” Ron exploded. He jerked his arm out of Hermione’s grip and advanced on the smaller teen, who retreated despite himself. 

Hermione made as though to step between him and Harry, but a sharp look from her boyfriend seemed to quell her. Still, she gripped the front of her robes closed with white knuckled fists. “We discussed this!” she snapped at the youngest Weasley son. “We said that we wouldn’t do this to him! He’s tired!”

The Keeper spun to face her. “He’s always tired! And you’re always sad! And I—I’m—” A low growl slid out of his throat and he turned back to Harry. “Do you have any idea how bloody _hard_ we’re trying? Any idea at all how hard it is to be Harry Potter’s best friends?”

 _Do you have any idea how hard it is to be Harry Potter?_ But the words would not leave Harry’s throat. His hands opened, finger’s slack, and he found that if he looked straight ahead, he was actually staring at Ron’s throat. The Keeper would probably have a whole head on him come summer.

The ragged hero looked at his friend’s Adam’s apple for a moment, Hermione’s pale face and flushed cheeks floating in the nighttime shadows that the fire could not hold at bay just out of the corner of his eye. 

“Ask me then.” His voice sounded thin and tired. “Ask.” _Something. Anything. Ask._

The fire popped.

It was Hermione who finally broke the silence. Her voice sounded steady and clear and it occurred to him that she was always steady and clear when he needed it the most. 

“Snape.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry countered darkly, withdrawing slightly and crossing his arms over his exposed chest.

“Yes, you do.” Her voice remained level. “Last year, you hated him. This year, your world comes tumbling down if he insults you in class. At the end of last term you looked at him like you might kill him. This year, you look at him as though he were the Holy Grail.”

The teen shook his head slightly and took a step back. His lips were parted, but he remained silent. 

Hermione took a slow step forward, stepping between Ron’s thunderous scowl and Harry. “And he’s different, too. He doesn’t meet your eyes. He actively avoids you in the halls. He comes to see you—”

Harry’s head shot up. 

Hermione set her jaw, knowing she’d won something, but not sure quite what. “Snape was there to see you while you were . . . asleep. He looked awful.”

A shooting pain shot up Harry’s nose. _No, not this! Not tonight!_ He closed his eyes against a blurriness he refused to acknowledge. 

Hermione plunged onward, unable to decipher the tight look on his face. “He spoke to you sometimes when he thought no one was there. It was in a different language.”

The scent of parchment and gingerbread and ink and old, moldy books and _Hermione_ suddenly flooded Harry’s senses as the girl stepped closer. He turned away. A cold hand brushed his left cheek in an achingly familiar gesture. “ _Why won’t you let us help you?_ ”

The frustration in her voice made him ache inside.

Harry looked up again and suddenly Hermione understood the expression ‘deer in the headlights.’ 

“I don’t need anyone’s help.” He remained trapped by her bewildered gaze for a moment and blurted out the only thing he could think of: “I’m sorry.”

Ron’s eyes narrowed. 

Harry whirled, turning towards the portal that led out of the Common Room, but Hermione grabbed his arm. Ron was right: they were all an absolute mess and she wasn’t about to let Harry leave until they got this fixed. “Stop running!”

“Let me go,” Harry snapped in response, trying to jerk his arm. Something like rage sprang up in him. He made no attempt to rein it in. He was so bloody _tired_ of trying to rein in his temper. “I told you everything I have to say! Just stay the bloody hell out of it!”

“That’s enough, mate,” Ron hollered, seeing Harry’s struggle against Hermione increase. Harry may have been small, but he was strong as hell when he started fighting for something. Stronger than he probably realized. One did not spend six years whipping about on brooms and getting into various wrestling matches in the dorms without developing _some_ kind of physique. Ron had seen Harry do things on a broom that took a lot of muscle and he had no desire to see that muscle used against his girlfriend.

He reached out and gripped the back of Harry’s open robes, practically hiking the boy off the ground. In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea. His brothers had been forever picking him up by the back of his jumper when he was younger and he’d hated it. He did not, however, expect Harry to whirl around as though bitten. Clothe ripped, Ron stumbled backwards, nearly falling, and Hermione fell to the floor. Her shoulder glanced off the corner of one of the chairs and she cried out in pain. The sound froze both Ron and Harry in their tracks.

Harry took a step towards her, a frantic look on his face. “‘Mi—”

Ron gripped his forearm hard and tossed the boy backward, nearly throwing him down. He dropped down beside Hermione, his eyes running a cursory check over the girl before he whirled to Harry, his face a mask of anger. He wanted to shake him, to throttle him, to hurt him worse that he had hurt them.

“What are you on about—”

But when Ron looked up, the only the only thing he could see was the back of the Fat Lady’s portrait as it silently swung closed. For a moment he stood, trembling with anger and the overwhelmingly helpless frustration that had seemed to have been growing inside him since September. A sniffle arrested his attention and he immediately crouched down, gathering Hermione’s comparatively tiny frame into his arms. She threw her arms around his neck and pressed her face into his throat.

“I pushed too hard,” she murmured.

“I didn’t push enough,” he countered. 

She laughed then, the tempo of her shuddering shoulders changing. “Must you always disagree with me?”

He kissed the top of her head and rocked her slightly. “Just trying to keep you on your toes, ‘Mione,” he murmured into that eternally busy hair he loved so much.

The arms around his neck tightened in a painful hug and he held his girlfriend close by the firelight, rocking her back and forth and silently cursing the day Severus Snape was born.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


“ _  
**WHAT PART OF SUBTLE ESCAPES YOU?!**   
_ ”

The shriek echoed off the rotted walls of the ballroom and the candles flickered ominously. Lord Voldemort was so mad, he couldn’t even hiss. Instead he sputtered and spat like a too-full teakettle past its boiling point. To her credit, Narcissa did not flinch as she knelt before her husband’s master. She was just lucky to have avoided Voldemort’s rage on Tuesday night and Wednesday. No one was quite sure whether or not Micah Jasperstone would ever regain full usage of the left side of his body and Crabbe senior had been entered into St. Mungo’s suffering from the affects of an as yet unknown Dark Curse.

Nagini shifted at Voldemort’s feet, bits of flaky skin peeling off as she shed. Somehow the snake managed to look positively sulky and she hissed in discontent at the noise. Voldemort ignored her.

“ _ **BE GRATEFUL THAT JASPERSTONE MANAGED TO DRAG THE MIRROR ONTO THE GROUNDS, ELSE I’D HAVE DESTROYED THE LOT OF YOU!!! I SHOULD KILL YOU THIS VERY INSTANT!! YOUR SON—YOUR ACCURSED BRAT COULD HAVE RUINED MY PLANS—**_”

“My son is dead,” Narcissa interrupted in a cold voice, her forehead pressed against the ground, still kneeling. “My son is dead and Lucius has gone mad.” She slowly sat upright, but remained on her knees. “I have come to request a favor, my Lord.”

Voldemort stood from his throne, the expression on his reptilian face indecipherable. He walked slowly down from the dais, descending with preternatural grace, to loom over Narcissa. Her red rimmed blue eyes met his assessing gaze calmly. A long fingered hand extended and cupped Narcissa’s chin. The powerful digits squeezed her pale skin painfully. 

“Your impetuous spawn nearly ruins me and you come to me begging a favor?” His low, cruel hiss was all the more disturbing for the previously violent noise he’d been making. 

Still, Narcissa did not relent.

“Yes, my Lord.”

A low, rough hiss crawled from out of the Dark Lord’s gullet and it took her a moment to recognize it as low key laughter. Voldemort’s free hand traced the line of her throat, and slipped down past her jeweled necklace to delve into her low-cut bodice. Long, cold fingers slipped in between her cleavage and slid over the smooth rise of her flesh till it happened upon its goal. A brilliant red flush of shame stained Narcissa’s face while the rest of her face paled dramatically as the Dark Lord rolled and twisted her right nipple beneath the confines of her gown. He watched her expression hungrily, but there was no lust in his eyes, merely a desire to humiliate her.

A breathy cry worked its way out of her throat after a few moments, then a moan. Her face flushed entirely with mortification as the sensations running through her and she dropped her gaze, even as her legs spread open a bit against her will.

Voldemort withdrew his hand with another hissing laugh and smirked down at the woman at his feet, his many sharp teeth on prominent display. “Sssspeak, whore. Asssk me your . . . ‘favor.’”

It took all of Narcissa’s willpower not to just Apparate out of there, propriety be damned. Except that she could still feel the weight of her son’s corpse in her arms. Tears sprang to her eyes and she forced them back. She had cried rivers this week. No mother should _ever_ have to bury her child. She bowed again, pressing her forehead against the floor again in supplication.

“Revenge, my Lord.”

The hem of the black robes swaying just out of the corner of her eyes halted. “Revenge, Lady Naccissa . . .? Against who?”

The words staggered out of her throat like a wounded animal: “Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore.”

For a long moment there was silence. Then the robes began to sway again as Voldemort resumed his pacing in front of her. “Exssplain . . .” he hissed softly, sounding almost contemplative.

“Harry Potter bounced back the Curse that killed my son and Albus Dumbledore failed to protect him!” Her voice sounded crazed and raw and she bit her lip to hold back the flood of rage brewing in her.

“Sssit up, Lady.” One of those awful hands gently rested on her hair, smoothing back a few strands that had come undone. Then the same hand slid down and cupped her chin again, gently this time. He tipped her head back and met her gaze. “Are you truly willing to do anything to accomplish this?”

She swallowed heavily. “It is all I have, my Lord.”

He eyed her speculatively a moment and then whirled around, turning towards his makeshift throne again. “Bellatrix! Wormtail!”

The doors behind the dais opened after a moment, revealing the two Death Eaters. They immediately bowed as Voldemort approached them and then stood as the three of them held conference for a moment. Narcissa dropped her head and stared at the rotted carpeting, exhausted. A drop of sweat slid down her back, clinging to the heavy ribs of her corset. 

Voldemort returned after a moment, holding a vial of thick gold liquid in his hand. Pettigrew and Bellatrix were walked behind him. Nagini snapped lazily at the rat as he passed. The two Death Eaters silently took up stations just behind Narcissa as the Dark Lord stopped in front of her.

“Blood,” he hissed fingering the vial almost lovingly, “is the ultimate seal. It bindss parent and child, loverss, and is used in the most powerful of spellss.” His red-eyed gaze flickered to the woman kneeling at his feet. “I require this seal from you, Lady Narcissa. As the blood of your sson bound you to Potter, so now will the blood of your husssband bind you to me.”

Narcissa made no move.

Voldemort held out the vial and smiled coldly. “You hussband is of no use to either of uss anymore, my Lady. Kill him, and I promise that you will have your revenge. Pity . . . He was an excellent servant . . .” For a moment he looked lost in thought, then he seemed to shake himself and turned back to Narcissa. “Wormtail and Bellatrix will accompany you in this. They will sstand as my witnessss.” His eyes narrowed and he waggled the vial in warning. “If you should fail me in _this_ as well, there will be no more second chances for the Malfoy House.”

Cold, but steady, a fine-boned hand reached out and accepted the poison. “Yes . . . Master.”

Voldemort smiled and his wand suddenly appeared in his right hand. Narcissa extended her left arm and clenched her jaw as the expensive black silk of her gown was ripped away. The cold, tapered tip of the wand was pressed against her exposed flesh near the bend of her elbow.

“Do you accccept this Mark freely and with your whole heart?” The formal words sounded awkward and ungainly in that voice.

Darkness, writhing like cold black tentacles, gathered at the tip of the wand.

“I do.” Narcissa’s voice remained strong and clear.

Behind her, Pettigrew and Bellatrix knelt behind Narcissa, bowing low to the ground. Their voice, also awkward with formality sounded in unison: “We here bear witness.”

The Malfoy matriarch squeezed her eyes shut tightly and prayed to gods she had never believed in that she was making the right choice.

“ _Morsmordre!_ ”

And then she screamed.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


The knock on my door startles me out of an uneasy, shadow-filled sleep and for a moment I don’t know where I am. My hand clutches convulsively around the glass I fell asleep holding after I’d finally cleaned up, barely saving it from an abrupt end. It’s been too long since I truly slept and I feel as though I’m wrapped in a strange fog when I stagger to my feet and somehow stumble to the door, nearly getting tangled in my night robe on the way. When I open the door, it takes a long moment before I understand what I’m seeing. The fact that it doesn’t disturb me should worry me more than it does.

Children, after all, have a curious kind of beauty: silent eyes, round-cheeked, and unjaded, they have a look to them that brings to mind only the future, not the cruel, spotty past. Harry Potter is beautiful too, but he is not a child. He is not round-cheeked or wide-eyed, or unjaded. My poor Harry Potter. But he’s beautiful and tonight that is reason enough for me to open wide my door to him when he appears, ragged, torn, and eyes red-rimmed at my chambers at 2 in the morning. 

My poor Harry Potter. 

So I open my door and watch him for a brief moment, the brandy snifter filled with water in my right hand and the doorknob cool and metal in my left.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I whisper wearily, too tired to fight him. Too tired to remember why I want to fight him. Or at least _should_ want to fight with him.

Draco Malfoy is dead, I have only water to fill my brandy glass, and Harry Potter is standing in my doorframe, torn robes hanging off him like a portrait of the Passion of the Christ. When did this become my life?

When did I cease to care?

He stares up at me for a moment, perfect lips parted enticingly, and then literally throws himself into my arms. Supple, wiry boy arms wind themselves around my neck and pull me down closer to his height and the glass in my hand slides out from between my fingers, shattering on the stone floors of the dungeon with a short-lived crash. My own arms wrap obligingly around his too thin waist, memorizing his plains and curves, the boney angles of his prominent pelvic bones pressing into the top of my thighs. 

“Harry, Harry . . .” I whisper into his wild black hair, because he’s here and mine and _alive_ and I cannot stop touching him. This must be a dream.

That’s it. I fell down while I was cleaning up my quarters, dashed my head against the stone, and am in a coma.

His mouth drifts along the line of my throat as he raises his head and whispers words I can barely make out. “Please . . . Please don’t let me go . . .”

And then he kisses me. 

It feels real.

My hands tangling in that black bird nest, one leg sliding between his, tongue pushing past those reddened lips, messy and without a moment’s hesitation, I kiss him. He knees trembled as though in a swoon and he presses down against me, supported only by my hand and knee and those skinny, surprisingly strong arms wrapped ‘round my neck. He tastes like salt water and copper, but the remnants of butterscotch are strong in my own mouth and the combination fills my senses better than any brandy or cognac ever could. Teeth and tongues and hot moisture slipping down his cheeks to stain both our faces. 

He pulls away panting and buries his face in the crook of neck. He has to stand on his toes to do so comfortably, but he fits there perfectly. I drag him into my rooms and the door slams shut behind us.

He presses forward, pushing his body into mine as though afraid I’ll vanish if every possible inch of him isn’t touching me. Perhaps I will.

I tug down his night robes, practically tearing at them until they pool in a puddle of worn fabric at his ankles. 

“Severus—” He’s muttering things into my neck that I can’t hear and pressing clumsy awkward kisses against me. He arches against me when my hand ghosts down his back and gasps. “Touch me.”

So I kiss him again, pulling him closer as his lips open, once more drawing me in. My hands travel down his back, slide into the loose, too large band of his pants, gripping and pulling at every inch of his flesh that I can touch. And it’s not enough. So I grip his hair and pull his head back and claim and claim and claim his mouth with the slide of my tongue and the soft clatter of teeth until he trembles against me. And it’s not enough. So I slide my free hand down his sweat slicked back (so smooth! so easy!) to tug at the top of his pants. It takes no effort to pull them off (so easy!), and jerk down the band of his underpants, (so good!) down to touch him, down, down, down . . .

A rogue finger follows the natural curve of his body to press hard against the puckered curve of muscle his body hides and his arse clenches convulsively around the intrusion. He tears his lips from mine. “Severus!” Green eyes stare up at me in panic, but those hips are undulating against me, hardness pressed against me—

And, **oh God!** How did I deny myself this?

Mine, mine, mine. This is all mine and no one will have it, no one will _touch_ it because it’s mine and I’ll kill them first. _MINE_.

“Severus . . . Severus . . . Severus.”

So I kiss him. There is an air of frenzy about it all—all sweat, and panting, and the crush of bodies . . . And, oh Merlin, he smells like grass, and dust and sunlight. He feels like damp silk, hot and clinging. Oh, Merlin . . .

_Not this way! Not this way!_

I didn’t want it to be this way—this banal, but I can’t stop.

“Severus . . .” he whimpers.

And I can’t stop.

I kiss and bite at him—his cheeks, his throat, anything my mouth can touch—and gently press my finger against his entrance again, massaging, nothing more. He bucks and writhes and whimpers in frustration.

Beautiful.

One of those hands slips free of my neck, fumbling around for my wrist. “Not yet! Not—oh!—tonight! Can’t—”

Something ugly rears up in my at the denial, something that wants to throw him down and _take_ what he came in here and threw at my feet. Something that—

Shrivels and fades away at the sight of green eyes.

My hand withdraws and I press him against me: holding him, nothing more.

Nothing more.

He shudders in my arms, trembling as he gasps for air. I keep one hand pressed against his lower back, stilling his hips until his erection softens against my thigh as he calms. My free hand runs through his messy hair. Somehow his hands have latched onto my lapels and his knuckles are white. He burrows impossibly closer to me and a ghost of sensation whispers over the erection I didn’t know I had.

I pull away, needing the space, and he stiffens at the swell of cold air that rushes between us.

I close my eyes, try to think of particularly vile potions ingredients, and look up at him. “Are you a vir—”

The words die in my throat.

He’s naked.

I can feel my eyes widen to what has to be comical proportions, but he’s naked.

Harry Potter . . . is naked. In my rooms.

How did I let that little detail slip my mind?

But there he is . . . flushed, awkward, and . . . naked.

Wide green eyes stare at me through those classy new glasses above a flush of lust and shame and small hands twitch as though longing to cover himself. His throat is long, a prominent Adam’s apple softened by the light of the fire and his nipples are two soft, flat pink-colored things that I can almost feel my mouth watering to bite. His ribs show and he’s almost unappealingly skinny and unfinished, like a pale clay Adonis that some a lazy Michelangelo just didn’t want to put all the effort into. Almost no dark hair swirls on his chest or sunken stomach, but a perfect thatch of black, wiry curls is nestled between his legs. Uncircumcised and unremarkable, his cock lays languid against his barely parted thighs, hiding everything but the barest glance of flushed testicles. There’s nothing particularly special about him, but I can literally feel my mouth begin to water. It seems like the best thing I’ve ever seen. The shine of a small smear goes from the very tip of his semi-erect penis to his leg and I force my gaze down to muscular legs and flat, broad feet that don’t seem nearly as important.

“You’re a virgin?” It sounds like I’m choking rather than speaking, but he understand me perfectly and responds with a flush that goes clear down to his nipples, which perk right up in response.

Holy God.

Of course he is. Who would dare corrupt Harry Potter?

The idea of being the first person to touch all that perfect, unclaimed skin is even more of an aphrodisiac than that blushing cock, though. I swallow and tear my eyes away, thanking whatever demon that haunts me that I indulged earlier today or I’d have surely fallen down dead by now. I stagger to a chair and sit down before I fall down and gesture for him to follow me. He does so with no hesitation and again my eyes fly to his wilted erection, swaying—

I grab him the moment he’s within reach, jerking him down into my lap, his legs perpendicular to my own. He knows nothing—absolutely nothing—and I remind myself of that as he drops down on me. Nothing too fast. Nothing too rough. Nothing too harsh. He needs to learn . . . 

He stiffens as he sits right down on my erection, and those marvelous kiss-bruised lips make a little ‘o’ of surprise. Green eyes look up at me beneath the curtain of messy bangs and black eyelashes. His gaze is rapt on my face, which surely has to betray what little control I have left—and then he _bounces_. And moans in surprise as he presses the tight, bare cleft of his arse against the straining fabric of my pajamas bottoms. 

_Loathsome. Fucking. Brat_

It takes all my self control not to just throw him down and ram into him until he bleeds. 

Instead, I wrap my left arm around the front of his waist, hiding his tempting cock from my gaze, and holding his hips tight to my lap. My right arm comes up from behind his back and gently presses his head down to my shoulder. He writhes to protest his bondage, but cannot escape, and quits the attempt entirely when I slowly lift my hips, allowing him to adjust to the sensation he’s so obviously craving.

“Severus . . .” His lips brush my throat. 

I thrust up again, slowly so as not to dislodge him.

He smells like sex and dusty places and I press my face into his hair and pretend I’m not committing a crime. My left hand moves from the slope of his hip to his left thigh, thumb gliding slowly over the base of his penis, before coming to rest on the hot inside of his leg. Teeth catch at my throat and my fingers rub a slow circular pattern on his skin as the fingers of my right hand bury themselves in his hair. 

I pitch my voice low. “Do you touch yourself?”

My hand slips down between his legs, knuckles brushing against his reawakening erection until the very tip of my middle finger presses against something soft, and warm. He moans and tries to press up as the tip of my fingers whisper just above his balls. Those pale thighs fall open easily.

“Yesssssss . . .”

He sits bolt upright when my hand suddenly withdraws to wrap tight around his penis, and his hips jerk violently. I grip him hard and lean forward to catch his earlobe. “What do you think of?”

A desperate fluttering hand, unnaturally pink—almost raw-looking, really—wraps around my left hand, squeezing it to try and squeeze himself. “ _Severus_.” 

He’s whining.

I _twist_ my hand around him, earning something between a groan and a scream, and his hips jerk as the crescents of his nails dig into my hand. I nip his ear harder in chastisement, savoring his whimper as my breath ghosts over his ear. His impossibly small hands grapple with my larger one, trying to force it to move over his swollen erection. 

“Watch,” I order. I want him to _know_ what I’m doing to him. I want him to see himself lose control. 

His head drops down heavily and enormous, widely dilated green eyes lock onto our hands as they wrap around him. His nostrils flare at the scent of his own desire. My gaze follows his and I have to look away and lightly bite down on the juncture of his shoulder to force away the image of the blushing tip of his penis peeking out from the press of our hands. 

“Now tell me,” I urge him breathlessly, promising him more with a gentle tug. 

“You! I t—think of you!” 

His right hand grips my knee in an attempt to get more leverage and he tries to push himself into my hand. I hold him tight, thwarting the act. I can feel my palm sweating, encouraged by the hot, firm brand of his cock in my hand. My right hand grip tightens in his hair, forcing him to continue watching as I fondle him.

He groans at the sight and tries to press himself down against me. “Y—you throw me on your lab table!” His breath is coming in obscene little pants, forcing him to stutter and gasp as my hand slowly begins to stroke up and down his arousal with long, firm motions.

I swipe my thumb roughly over the leaking tip and nuzzle his bruised, bitten throat, incapable of words. “Mmmm?”

“ _Ohhh!_ ” He pushes down on my hand, knuckles white. “You push up my robes and—and rip off my pants . . .”

“No underwear?” I bite his neck again, gentler this time, and suckle the saltiness there. I press firmly on the tip of his erection again, earning a violent tremor. “Naughty.”

His left hand twists around mine, the plea for more made painfully obvious by the motion. “And you t—tell me that you’re going f—fuck me.” The word staggers out of swollen lips and I nearly come.

He pants and moans shamelessly now, pushing against me like an oversexed mink, aroused by his own obscenity.

My hand speeds up and I thrust my hips against him unintentionally, needing to be rougher—violent. Needing him to not feel so damned breakable. “I’m going to _fuck_ you, am I?” The purr is a growl and he twists like a snake in my arms.

“Y—yes!” 

“ _Fucking whore!_ ” the hiss escapes me as he jerks his hips, rubbing against my aching erection as he tries to work my hand over his own. He makes a noise that sounds like a growl and tips his head back. 

“ _Whore!_ ” 

He loves it and I can’t stop touching him and biting him and his pink hands grip mine hard, urging on the tempo and he won’t shut up, panting like a bitch in heat.

“Oh, God—oh, god, y—you’re going to tear me apart!”

My hand is cramping, but he’s so obviously close, so obviously mine. It would take so little . . . “Tell me, Mr. Potter . . .” I squeeze him _hard_. “Do you think I could fuck you so hard you’d beg in parseltongue?” And _Twist_.

For a split second his head tips back and he nearly falls before I can catch him. Then he bucks and keens at the same time and hot, sticky, wetness boils over our hands, overwhelming with the scent of something sharp, bitter, and both new and familiar.

I stare down, feeling nothing but satisfaction and . . . conquest . . . as the fading, sporadic spurts of Harry’s Potter’s pleasure pour out onto our laps and stain my pajamas pants. The boy—young man—lays limp and exhausted, still sitting perfectly beside my body. Fitting me.

I want to hate him.

I want to rub myself off on him.

I want rest.

He yawns and tucks his head beneath my chin, obviously settling in for the night.

I’ve no heart to move him. 

I carefully unwrap my left hand, disengaging it from his sticky hand and softened penis, and make a short, hook like gesture, reminiscent of a wand flick. “ _Scourgify_ ”

Harry does not react as the mess vanishes. He’s asleep.

“Bad form,” I murmur softly into his hair. I wrap my arms tight around him. “Falling asleep on your . . .”

_Lover? Partner? Molester? Professor?_

The sentence dies on my lips.

I lean back into my chair, both sated and unsatisfied and hold his tiny, trembling frame tight. Exhaustion wilts my own erection, age betraying me despite the warm weight resting in my lap. The fire continues to crackle as though I have not done something unforgivable. 

I grip Harry tighter, as though someone were waiting in the wings to seize him from me. He’s mine now. No matter what else, he’s mine.

And that’s all that can be.

“Why did you come here?” I whisper into the silence.

He trembles and I almost drop him, realizing that he’s chuckling. The little sneak. “. . . Because the only thing that I _know_ I want is you,” he murmurs muzzily.

My mouth moves silently and something like despair flashes through me. I grip him hard, intending to throw him on the floor, throttle him, fuck him, _anything_ . . . But he is already asleep.

And then I find that I cannot move at all.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


She knew before she entered that he would be huddled in the corner. It was only the magic of the House Elves that kept him clean and fed. Diggle—the Elf who normally kept the basement—sat guard by the door. No one was allowed in or out of the room except for Narcissa, and she rarely came by at all anymore.

The man that she had married was dead, a casualty of fanaticism and idealism.

Narcissa stopped in front of the large circular door that led to the room where her husband was kept. Behind her, Wormtail shifted anxiously and Bellatrix muttered a steady stream of profanities almost absently.

Hard blue eyes turned to the shoddily clad Elf by the door. He looked up at her with mournful yellowish-green eyes. 

“Open the door.” Her voice was rough and throaty from screaming.

The House Elf hopped to obey, using the magic particular to his species to remove the heavy Wards that kept the former Master of the House locked in. The Malfoy matriarch set her jaw as the door creaked outward with terrible slowness. 

Bellatrix chuckled at nothing. “Have so missed your dear, dear husband, Cousssin . . .” the former beauty hissed spitefully.

Narcissa turned, ignoring the agony the motion sent through her inflamed left arm, and stared coldly at the remnants of her cousin. She and Bella had been close once . . . before Azkaban had twisted the woman into . . . _this_. Narcissa, Regulus, and Bellatrix . . . Those had been the days. Lucius by her side and every woman in the room simultaneously loathing them and wishing they were them. And perfect, angelic Draco swaddled in green silk in her arms. She looked at her cousin with empty eyes before turning away.

Three of the greatest families in the Wizarding world brought to ruin . . . It was enough to make one wish she was born a squib.

“Can we get on with this, please?!” Pettigrew squeaked, looking as perpetually terrified as ever.

“Come,” Narcissa murmured, the vial cold and solid in her right hand. She stepped through the door, and Diggle shut it behind them.

A House Elf named Quipple popped into appearance as the door boomed shut. Quipple was charged with looking after Master Malfoy. There was a second pop as Skiff—the Head Steward—appeared. The two both bore grim expression, both prepared to protect the Mistress and her guests. Narcissa ignored them. 

It took only a few moments for her eyes to adjust (Lucius couldn’t bear any significant amount of light anymore), but it was nothing but iron willpower that kept her on her feet at the sight of her husband. True to form, Lucius was curled in a fetal ball in a corner, what little clothing he wore torn and mangled by his own struggles against imaginary demons. Self inflicted cuts adorned his body. The Elves had taken to cutting his nails once a day to prevent them from growing to any length that he could use to damage himself further. When he had begun to dash his head against the walls it was also the Elves who stopped him. The Elves stopped him from trying to strangle himself with his clothing. The Elves stopped him from trying to eat his own filth. The Elves stopped him from gnawing at his arms 

The only thing keeping him alive was the Elves.

That was no way for a Malfoy to live. He would have hated it. He would have destroyed himself.

“Stay here,” the blonde whispered to her companions. Once she was certain they’d obey, she slowly approached her husband, still shadowed by the wary Skiff and Quipple.

“Luc?” 

The man stirred at the sound of his wife’s voice.

Narcissa slowly knelt beside him, but didn’t dare reach out to touch him yet. “Luc? Are you awake?”

He rolled over and she braced herself, trying to prepare for the screaming madness that had greeted her during her previous visit. Instead, child-like grey eyes stared up her blurrily. She closed her eyes in pain and felt something hot, wet, and damning slide down her cheek. 

A bitten-at, red knuckled hand rose unsteadily to push away the tear. Lucius smiled at her, but the expression in his eyes was wild and terrified, giving him the shine of madness. “ Lo,‘Ciss,” he greeted in a droll, grating sort of voice.

Narcissa caught his hand and squeezed it. The pain in her arm had nothing on this. “’Lo, Luc,” she whispered huskily. She didn’t fight the tears anymore.

“Is it Christmas yet?” he asked her solemnly, watching the dim magical lights of the room shine off her tears. “Draco will be home at Christmas and I’m going to get him a new broom so that he’s not angry with me anymore.” He blinked tiredly. “You know I hate it when you cry.”

Narcissa forced a small smile. “Draco’s not cross with you anymore, love. He said . . . he misses you and can’t wait to come home.”

Lucius smiled that unnerving smile once more. “He’s such a good boy.”

Narcissa looked away. “I need you to drink something, Luc. It will make you feel better.” She uncorked the vial with shaking hands, narrowly avoiding spilling the contents, and held it out to his lips.

A surprisingly strong hand rose to steady her and her breath caught painfully in her chest as theirs eyes met. He tipped back the contents of the vial and swallowed it without hesitation.

The effect was immediate. A violent shudder wracked the man’s body and for a moment it looked as though he was going to vomit. Then Lucius’s eyes widened in shock and he opened his mouth as though preparing to scream, but instead viscous greenish gray bubble slowly rose out of his throat and hovered for an instant on his lips. It popped loudly, smelling of bile and blood, and he went abruptly still.

Narcissa stared for a moment, unable to believe that it had happened so quickly. The cork of the vial rolled out of her hand and she stared down at the Seal atop it. 

Snape. 

The man was nothing if not efficient. She turned away and found herself staring at her two watchers. She’d almost forgotten they were there.

She eyes narrowed and she couldn’t stop her face from twisting hatefully. “Satisfied?” she spat, desperately wishing that they couldn’t see the tears on her cheeks.

Bellatrix was grinning. She pointed her wand at Lucius’s body, still grinning. “ _Crucio._ ”

Nothing happened.

The woman’s smile dropped abruptly and she looked suddenly petulant. “ _Crucio!_ ”

Still there was no reaction. Dead men cannot, after all, be tortured.

“Fine,” Bella sniffed, looking like a child deprived of a treat. 

“Good,” Narcissa hissed. “Now get the hell out of my house.”

A tic jumped below Bellatrix right eye, but she spun around sharply and stalked out, Wormtail scampering after.

Narcissa turned back to her husband, ignoring the sound of the door opening and closing. She swallowed roughly and brushed the tears from her eyes and then set about closing his eyes and mouth. There was a spell to ease the faces of the dead, but she could not recall it and instead tried to soothe that awful look of anguished surprise off his face with trembling fingers before his flesh stiffened and froze. She tucked his hair, usually pristine but now in wild disarray, behind his ears in a futile effort to bring him some dignity.

Then she was still, unable to do anything more, but unable to leave him either. 

Her left arm ached fiercely. 

The woman brushed her husband’s cheek tenderly and felt her face crumble. “ _I have loved you my **entire life** . . ._ ”

The words sounded weak and thin in the small, dim room.

From the shadows, the Elves watched in tearful silence.

  
**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**  



	12. The Dolphin-Torn Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_  
> Where the Heart Moves the Stone_**  
>  \- Verse Nine of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc -  
> \- Hanakai Mikakedaoshi  
> 10.7.2003 – 09.26.2004  
>  **  
> *~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
> **
> 
> Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. Harry Potter and all the elements therein are the intellectual property / registered trademarks of JK Rowling, Scholastic Books, and Warner Brothers. _The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock_ was written by T.S. Elliot. I am not profiting from this.  
>  ** _Warnings:_** SS/HP slash, sexual content, violence,  & language.
> 
>  **Kudos and thanks** must go to my beta reader: the effervescent _LadyDeathFarie_.
> 
>  _Thank you_ to everyone who’s read and much love to all the reviewers. This is the final chapter in Part I of the J. Alfred Prufrock Arc, but Part II is already in the works. I’m going to take some time off the Arc for a bit to work on some gift fics that can be found both on my LJ and on Skyehawke.com due to naughty bits. ^_^ I know it’s been a long STRANGE trip up till now, but remember, we’re only halfway there. There’s still nine more versus to go and things are nowhere NEAR resolved for any of the players in this story yet.
> 
> Again, thank you all so much, and—as always—please review. 
> 
> \- Hanakai

  
**  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***   


  
**~ Chapter Eight ~  
The Dolphin-Torn Sea**   


  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***   


  
“Come rhythm,  
Come silence,  
Come into our shame.  
The fear has no heart  
And the fear has no name.  


  
Come sing alleluia,  
Come sing dominae.  
Come sing alleluia,  
Come sing . . .”  


  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**   


“ _I_ ask that you relieve me of my duties as Potions Master, Albus.”

The Headmaster looked up, his expression grave. He opened his mouth hesitantly to say something, but then paused when he caught sight of the young man standing in the doorway. He watched him for a moment with an unreadable expression. Finally, the older man settled back in his chair and pushed aside the budget report he’d been looking over. “Come in, Severus, and let us talk.”

For an instant, the professor seemed to hesitate, but then he swept in with a sniff of distaste and eyed the dozing portraits warily. Severus was pale, but calm. Totally collected. There was no wildness in his eyes, nor did his hands shake. He sat down uninvited and settled stiffly into the high-backed chair in front of Albus’s desk. A heavily laden tea tray appeared next to him with the signature pop of Elf magic. Both men ignored it.

Albus watched his Potions Master with an inscrutable expression for several long moments. Then he turned away and waved his wand towards the fireplace. The flames leapt up higher. The headmaster turned back to his companion: “I am sorry to hear about your father, Severus—”

“I’m not,” the sallow-skinned man interrupted sharply. “He was a bastard. He was always a bastard.”

“Severus—” 

He waved away the Headmaster’s reprove. “That is hardly why I’ve come and you know it.” Their eyes locked for a moment and he gave the other man a hard, uncompromising look. “I have come to resign, Headmaster. For once in your life, please be kind enough to respect my decision and give me a straight answer.”

A pale, fine-boned hand fished into the belled sleeves of his robe and removed a scroll. He set it down on his employer’s desk and leaned back in the chair, looking somehow relieved now that he had said his piece.

Albus looked down at the scroll on his desk with the loose consideration a botanist would give a new species of flesh eating plant: interested, but wary. His blue eyes flickered back to Severus and half moon glasses flashed as he leaned forward and gingerly lifted up the scroll. He held the letter in his hand for a moment, feeling the thick, expensive parchment beneath his skin, and then he turned slightly and tossed the scroll into the flames. It was consumed instantly.

Severus’s face tightened. His jaw clenched and ominously dark eyes bore into his employer, sharp and assessing. The fire popped loudly. After a moment, he slumped slightly in his seat and stared fixedly at the other man. “I have done monstrous things in my life, Albus.” His voice was soft, dark, and low. “This, I would do right by.”

“By leaving?”

Severus’s fist landed hard on the arm of his chair. “By compromising myself no more than necessary! I _cannot_ leave him behind! Don’t you think I would if I were able? I would sooner tear the veins from my own flesh one by one—it would amount to the same!”

The Headmaster tugged his beard; his eyes sparkled curiously in the firelight, but his face remained carefully blank. “Then it seems we have no more to discuss.” He reached out for his budget reports, but a stained hand snaked out with startling speed and landed atop the files, fingers splayed.

Severus leaned forward, still keeping the papers pinned to the desk, his eyes flashing dangerously. “I will not be so easily brushed aside! Nor will I compound inequity with injustice! How can I hope to salvage anything in such a situation? I will _not_ do this to him and I _will not_ shame myself thusly!”

For a moment darkness crossed Albus’s features, anger clouding his normally bright eyes. He tensed, and it seemed to require effort for him to regain control of his features. A clear blue gaze speared the other man, almost burning him with its intensity, but despite the black look, a congenial smile fixed itself on the Headmaster’s mouth. “I will not accept any resignation from you at this time, Severus. Not in any form.”

The Potions Master stared at him, pulling back as though trying to focus more completely on the man. Puzzlement twisted his high brow. “Why have you done this?” He sat back heavily, openly confused. “What are you scheming? Why do you tolerate this?”

Albus settled back in his chair and looked intently at the younger man. “Because this is the way that things must be.” His face hardened perceptibly and there was absolutely no trace of the grandfatherly old man that he presented to the world. Without the mask of a twinkle, his sapphire eyes shimmered with a strange chill and a terrible kind of power seemed to lurk inside the man. “Do not fight me in this, Severus,” he advised in a quiet, firm voice. “You will lose.” He paused and his gaze sharpened. “You _have_ lost.”

The Potions Master gripped hard at the arms of his chair and his eyes flashed furiously. “I have done everything you have asked of me, Albus,” Severus hissed in a low, poisonous whisper. “I have done every single thing you’ve ever demanded of me—even though I knew it might destroy me. Even when I _knew_ that it would mean the death of me. I have _paid_ my penance with bloody interest. I have given you every last thing but my pride. Why do you demand it now?” His hands trembled slightly. “Why _now_?”

Albus did not look the least bit impressed. “Do you think you are the only one to whom I must answer?” He rose with a slowness born of more than age, uncharacteristically angry. “You are behaving like an utter child, Severus.”

Severus’s jaw literally dropped for a moment. Then he too was on his feet and all semblance of self control was gone. “Draco Malfoy is _DEAD!_ Does that even register with you?! You were supposed to protect him! Is it only your precious Gryffindors who merit your attention now? How bloody _much_ does Slytherin have to sacrifice to you before—”

“ _Enough!_ ”

Severus froze, stunned by the exclamation. For a moment, he and Albus regarded one another across the desk in a heavy silence, then the Potions Master sat back down in his chair, looking drained and tired.

He turned away from the Headmaster and stared fixedly at fire, his long fingers steepled in front of his chin.

Albus watched him for a moment with an unfathomable expression before resuming his seat as well. The younger man did not look away from the flames. 

“Albus . . .” The hesitation in his voice was almost painful. “Albus, he tried to Summon me.”

The old man went very still. “What do you mean?”

“Har—Potter. My Mark was burning; that’s why I returned to Hogwarts when I did. At first I thought it was the Dark Lord, but it was not.” The light of the fire cast odd shadows over the professor’s face. “When I found him in the forest, I knew. I was . . . compelled to be near him. It only happens, I think, when he wants me close or feels . . . threatened.”

For a moment the Headmaster was silent, tugging thoughtfully at his beard. Then: “Does he know? Is he aware of what he has done?”

A muscle in the other man’s cheek twitched as he clenched his jaw. “No.” The response came out from between gritted teeth. “He . . .” He pressed his thin lips into a tight, hard line. “How can you simply _sit_ there?”

“Do you care for him, Severus?” 

“. . . I would not be here otherwise, Albus.” The former Death Eater’s gaze hardened. “But he is not ready for this—any of it.” _I am not ready for this._ “He is only a child.”

Albus tilted his head slightly to the side. “He has never been _only_ a child, dear boy.”

Severus turned his head slowly, his hands still in front of his face. The look he gave his employer was venomous and his voice was a low hiss. “Have you gone mad? Am I the only one who sees this for what it is? For the love of God, Albus, he is SIXTEEN! Sixteen!! He _is_ a child! An infant! He is no hero or savior, or miracle. He’s nothing but a stupid boy who’s in over his head! How can you allow this—any of this?”

The Headmaster’s expression did not change. “How old are you, Severus?”

“Thirty-seven!” the man snarled in response.

Albus nodded slowly. “Almost thirty-eight now.”

Severus met his eyes with a hard gaze and Albus smiled faintly at the angry defiance the man radiated. “Eighteen years ago, in June actually, I found you sitting in Hog’s Head nursing a glass of watered down rum and brooding. At the time, I’d not seen you for nearly three years. I sat down in front of you and you pointed your wand at me and said, ‘ _Bugger off, you arse_.’” A fond grin danced over the old man’s features at the memory and Severus had the courtesy to blush faintly. 

The Headmaster continued, looking both tired and amused. “When I tilted my hood back a bit and you saw my face, I thought you were going to have a heart attack. Do you remember what I did then?”

Severus looked at him wearily for a moment before picking up the story. “You laughed at me. Then you looked me right in the eye and said, ‘I have a position for you, if you are willing and if you are able. Are you ready to come home, Severus?’”

Albus nodded, pleased that his former student remembered the moment. “Yes. And then we left the pub. The next day you joined both the Order and the faculty.” For a moment, the older man’s eyes grew distant, remembering what things had been like then . . . Before Severus had become so hopelessly jaded and Peter was a known traitor, and Remus Lupin was a walking zombie. Before Sirius Black and the Potters died and Harry Potter had the weight of a world rested on his small shoulders. As terrible as things had been then—and they had been terrible—they had been happier times. Sometimes, he wished he could go back and change everything, but he could not.

Albus sighed heavily and focused on Severus again. “You asked me once—just once—how I knew you were ready to turn from Voldemort then—how I knew that at that very moment, you were looking for a way out.”

The younger man watched him with an almost fearful expression in his eyes, though his face remained as stern as ever. “I will not ask you again,” he said in a tight voice.

“You do not have to,” the old man responded gravely. 

There was a faint ‘pop’ and Severus started as tower-like structure suddenly appeared on the Headmaster’s desk. 

Albus gestured to the Scaccarium. “This is how I knew, Severus.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Severus stared, his expression halfway between awe and terror. “How . . .”

On each board, the glass and metal Carunculous danced in a whirl of lights, each zipping about their levels as though trying to escape. The board—the Scaccarium—looked like a six tiered, three dimensional chess board, only (instead of the support tower going up through the center) the support was on the outside, winding around the six individual boards with arms projecting to hold up the levels. This made it possible to remove the levels, withdrawing them the same way one would open a drawer. The entire structure was made of glass. The boards—each a perfectly cut square—were each a different color, and each was composed of six rows of six colored circles

Severus sat back, as though distance would remove the artifact from his presence. There were some magical objects whose reach was so far, whose impact was so dangerous, that they were destroyed. The Scaccarium was one of them. Though their exact origins were foggy, it was well known that they had once been favored tools of the Roman Emperors and Alexander the Great. Every great warlord, warlock, Emperor, or conqueror before the year 500 AD was supposed to have benefited from their use. 

They were, in fact, deemed so dangerous that in 497 AD—the year of the overthrow of Romulus Augustulus and the subsequent fall of the Roman Empire—an accord was reached among the Picts, Germans, Visigoths, and Vandals that all the remaining Scaccarium would be destroyed. It was their abuse under the Roman Emperors that was credited with the success (and decadent bloating) of the Empire. The early leaders of Europe decided that no one man had to right to move lives and civilizations about to suit his fancy.

The controversy lay in the fact that the Scaccarium and Carunculous were instruments of predestiny. Though the means to create them had been lost long ago, their theoretical function had been passed down for millennia. Supposedly, the boards were smaller representations of the playing field of the Gods. The pieces on the board were Heroes or Vessels and—in the case of Heroes—appeared when their corresponding real person was born, or—in the case of Vessels—when the corresponding person acquired enough resources to become a major player.

Heroes were supposed to be people of Prophecy, like Arthur, or Merlin, or Caesar ( _or the Dark Lord and Potter_ ). Vessels were comparatively ordinary people whose actions or positions made them vital to the fulfillment of the Hero’s prophecy. The danger of the boards lay in that—though Heroes could not be forcefully moved about the boards—the Vessels could be slowly adjusted or manipulated to places they would not have normally gone. Any change to a Vessel’s position on the board resulted in a redirection of the actual individual’s life or actions. The possibility of such underhanded manipulations could be catastrophic on a universal level.

The Potions Master stared at the board and looked more than a little bit ill. He turned, feeling more than he could even begin to identify, and wondered bitterly which of those spinning bits of multi colored glass and metal was his.

“Where did you get this?” Strained by barely suppressed anger and fear, Severus could hardly recognize his own voice.

He was . . . bewildered. And utterly betrayed. Had his entire life simply been manipulated for him since that night in Hog’s Head? This . . . attraction . . . to Potter . . . Was it even real?

Was any of this real?

Against his will, his hands clenched into tight, hot fists and he could feel his magic lurch and quiver within him. 

A Scaccarium. 

How thoroughly he’d been used. And what a fool he was to have allowed it—an utter fool.

From across his desk, Albus watched his Potions Master grimly. “Calm yourself, Severus. The effort it takes to redirect the movements of even one Vessel is rarely worth the result—especially if the individual has a particularly strong will. I have found it much more effective to simply use it to keep an eye on you.”

A dark snarl twisted Severus’s lips. “I am sure. And that gives you the right to interfere with our lives in such a manner. I am _not_ your bloody pawn, Albus. _He_ is not your pawn.”

“ _He_ has a destiny,” the old man snapped. “And I have a duty to ensure that it is completed. And I have an obligation and a desire to see that it is resolved with him safe and sane in the end. Do you think that it has ever been any different, Severus? You are a _spy_. You know better. You know exactly what we face.”

“And you expect me to just stand by and allow you to use him?”

“I do not set the playing field, Severus—I merely do what I can with what I have been given. You two have made your own decisions, as we all do. Do not exaggerate your own import on these events, and do not underestimate it. Do not exaggerate or underestimate my importance, either. I was chosen for this. As was he. _You_ , however, have set your own path.”

“My own path?” the man spat. “Thus you abdicate responsibility?”

“Thus I knowingly reap what I have sown,” the Headmaster countered sharply. “And you will now do the same. You know that this artifact cannot lie.”

Severus felt something deep inside him clench and tighten painfully. “That artifact should not even exist!” 

“I know. And I know what I have risked in revealing it to you. But you _must_ understand what is at stake here. There is more at work than you know. This Scaccarium has been passed down from Hero to Hero since the days of Merlin. It was, in fact, his. Before the strife, civil wars, and chaos that preceded Arthur’s ascension to the throne and the pacification of Britain, the Lady of the Lake encountered this tower and gave it to Merlin. Legend holds that she claimed it would be of greater use to him than it could be to her. When he accepted the Scaccarium, it supposedly bonded to him, allowing him to see the meaning behind the Carunculous and their dance.”

Severus glared harshly at the man, looking as though he would like to interrupt, but Albus raised a hand, silently asking the he be allowed to continue. 

“By means even I have not discovered,” the Headmaster pressed on quietly, “it was preserved through the ages by various Heroes and reverent wizard until it came into the hands of Rowena Ravenclaw, who bought it to Hogwarts. Since that time, it has remained in the hands of our faculty and staff, choosing various Heroes or caretakers until it comes to where it needs to be. It is the magic of the Scaccarium itself that guides it to the people it deems necessary or worthy to possess it. It has been in my possession since I first entered this room as headmaster. Your ancestor Lamia Snape directed me to it. She was the last Hero to be bound to the Scaccarium and it was her portrait who guided me through my school days at this institution and helped me prepare for the confrontation with Grindelwald.” 

He watched Severus carefully for a moment, judging the other man’s expression before he continued. “I owe a great debt to your family. Not only for Lamia’s guidance so early in my life, but also because of my pitiable failure of you during your own school years here at Hogwarts. I would give a great deal to see you happy and at peace.”

Severus’s thin lips pulled back into a harsh, bestial sneer of derision. “And saddling me with a child with a penchant for bizarre obsession and a death sentence stamped on his forehead will make me _happy_? Showing me just how deeply and thoroughly you have played me like a pawn on your bloody chessboard is supposed to make me _HAPPY_?!”

Something in Albus’s expression blackened and a look of acute pain—almost anguish—flashed over the man’s face. He looked away from the younger man in favor of staring at the tower with haunted eyes. His voice sounded unaccountably hollowed and thin. “It is the best I can do under the circumstances.”

The indignity and rage that had been coiling to strike in Severus’s center melted into a kind of muted dread and his dark eyes flickered back to the artifact. For an instant his lips moved silently, his own words echoing ominously in his head: _“. . . a death sentence stamped on his forehead . . .”_

The Potions Master licked his lips tiredly and forced himself to speak. “What circumstances?”

Albus leaned back in his seat, fished a peppermint out of his robes and put it in his mouth. He sucked on the sweet for a moment, watching the man he’d come to love like his own in pensive silence as the carunculous danced, flashed, and whirled. When he spoke, his words were slow, but steady and without hesitation. “When I saw you holding him at the Headquarters that night, Severus, touching him so intimately, I was heartbroken. And furious. How had I once again failed you both so thoroughly? I left immediately. I did not trust myself to remain and face you. When I returned to my office, I spent hours watching the Scaccarium. You are a Vessel, Severus, and in the moment you touched him, you changed everything. Entire boards shifted. Pieces rearranged themselves.”

Severus’s brow furrowed and he shook his head in a tense, aborted motion as he discerned where this was headed. “No.”

The Headmaster did not seem to hear him. “Your destinies are now intertwined. One cannot be separated from the other without one or the both of you dying. You hold one another’s lives in your hands.”

The fire popped loudly, and the younger man stared at him blankely, pale, and empty-eyed. 

When the silence seemed to have gone on for too long, Albus leaned forward again, forcing Severus to meet his gaze with numbing intensity. “Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

Severus’s Adam’s apple bobbed heavily. His voice was little more than a breath. “You are giving this boy to me?”

Albus shook his head gravely, beard swaying and gaudy lime green hat shivering with the motion. “No. _You_ , Vessel, have taken this Hero for your own. I am merely forcing you to reap what you have sown. I told you before, Severus: there are some things that I cannot protect you from. You have guarded him for five years. Now you must continue in that stead and protect him from all things—including yourself.”

“Have you any idea what you are demanding of me?”

“I am telling you that—by your own actions—you can no longer jump ship as it pleases you. Do not put this on me, Severus. You have done this to yourself.”

Severus gripped the arms of his chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. “And what will you tell your Golden Boy?” he hissed. “ _Will_ you tell him of this? Did you learn nothing last year? He does not like being deceived or manipulated. He does not like being used. If he discovers what the Scaccarium is—that you have been manipulating—”

“He will not find out.” Albus’s tone brooked for no argument and for a moment the Potions Master stared, knowing that he was well and truly caught. Absolutely ensnared.

He did not dare leave Potter now—he couldn’t even if he wanted to—and, in regards to protecting the brat, his position at Hogwarts was too advantageous for him to willingly give it up. Albus could be tossed into Azkaban for using a Scaccarium and he wasn’t about to allow that to happen. For over seventeen years, the Headmaster had been his rock—infallible. He’d burned too many bridges to cut ties with Albus now, and he’d crossed too many to cut Harry off. 

Too many. It was all entirely too much.

Abruptly, Severus pushed himself to his feet, too agitated to remain seated. His left hand trembled and he began to pace in tight, furious circles. Furniture clambered out of his way with loud scrapes and wooden clanking noises. He did not notice.

“ _You . . . you . . ._ ”

“Have done the best I could, Severus.” There was a silent _“which is more than can be said for you”_ that hung ominously in the air. 

The former Death Eater froze in mid stride and very slowly turned his head to look over at his mentor. “And what is to say that you have not lied to me?”

“Why should I?” The Headmaster’s gaze narrowed and he thinned his lips dangerously. His eyes glittered. “What purpose would lying to you serve? Do you believe that I relish the situation in which we’ve all become embroiled? Do you think I would have _chosen_ to allow you to stumble into such a quagmire?”

Severus looked away, unable to meet the old man’s eyes. The censure in Albus’s voice was almost painful.

“I have put myself at great risk in showing you what I have and in telling you what I know. I have only done so because you _must_ understand what you risk by playing this game. There is no turning back now, Severus—no more running away, or hiding behind those who could protect you. Not in this. His life is now yours, dear boy. You must bear that burden alone.” 

The elderly wizard sighed, and the harsh edges left his expression, leaving him worn and tired. “I have deceived and mislead you, Severus, but I have never lied to you.”

“You have broken me,” the man whispered, almost choking on his own impotence.

Albus looked at him levelly. “Physician, heal thyself.” 

Severus opened his mouth, but no sound left him. His body trembled for a moment with a shiver of rage, not fear or agitation. Then he spun sharply on his heel and stalked towards the door, his fury wrapped ‘round him like a cloak. When he reached the doorknob, he paused, one hand on the cool metal, and turned slightly, to sneer faintly at his employer.

Albus had returned to his budgets.

The tall, lanky professor felt a flash of something like hatred burn hot inside him and turned a bit more, wanting the other man to _see_ the injustice of this abuse on his face. “What? No lemon drops?”

The old man looked up from the paperwork and seemed infinitely sad as he watched his child. He smiled, but the expression was painfully false. “I seem to have lost my taste for them.”

Severus stared for a moment, something like pain moving through him at the way his mentor said the words. But he had humiliated himself enough for one day, so he did the only dignified thing he could do: he turned and walked away.

****

  


*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


The Gryffindor ran his hand idly through her hair, feeling the warm, soft press of her body against his beneath the sheets. She stirred in his arms, but did not wake up. He stared up at the red canopy of his bed, seeing in the shadows faces and shapes that weren’t there. The young man hummed silently, strains of an old wizard song floating through his mind, and tried very hard not to think of anything.

He was so angry . . . so bloody _frustrated_ — 

_“Give him time,”_ she’d urged him. _“He’s just going through some things right now.”_

Right.

Some things.

Things that got Draco Malfoy killed.

Things that put him in the Hospital Wing for days.

Things that made him keep secrets. 

Ron used his free hand to pull the bedclothes up closer around him and Hermione.

If he was honest with himself, that was what hurt more than anything: Harry was keeping secrets.

Growing up in a large family pretty much precluded keeping any sort of secret. He was absolutely bloody transparent when it came to secrets. Merlin, half of Hogwarts—Harry included—knew how he’d felt about Hermione before he did. He hadn’t even been able to keep his relationship with Hermione under wraps when push came to shove.

He _had_ no secrets from Harry.

But now all that seemed to be between them were secrets.

Things had never _really_ been the same after their fight Fourth Year. Yeah, maybe he should have listened to Harry and Hermione and, yeah, maybe he did overreact . . . But what was he supposed to do? Harry was a brilliant person once you got to know him, but he was _Harry bloody Potter_. And the fact that Harry hated the attention and was generally pretty clueless when it came to the wizarding world somehow only made him _more_ popular—though exactly how that worked Ron wasn’t sure.

First Year, it had been kinda funny (not to mention an ego boost) to see Harry fumbling his way through things. Even with Quirrel and the Stone, it hadn’t been too terrible. Then in Second Year, there had been the spiders and the parselmouth. Ron still shivered to recall that. Then Hermione got hurt. That hadn’t really been fun at all. Then in Third Year, things changed. It all just seemed . . . so much more sinister. Werewolves and Grims . . . Sure, the dog had only been Sirius, but Ron still had nightmares about being drug under that the Whomping Willow and into the Shack. No one seemed to think about that, though: after all, Harry Potter saved the day again, didn’t he? Then in Fourth Year . . .

He had really believed that Harry put his name into the Goblet. Truly. How was he supposed to know that it was yet another ridiculously complicated plot to kill off Harry Potter? Really, if they wanted him dead so badly, why not just poison his food, or have some nutter randomly attack him in Hogsmead? Why all this sneaking about was needed, he didn’t know. 

Fred and George used to joke about that last year—how the Dark Lord seemed incapable of killing Harry without making a year-long production about it. It had become a running gag between the two of them . . . until their Mum found out. Then she had just started crying and Dad had sent them to bed without supper.

That was starting to happen a lot he’d noticed . . . People would just clam up when it came to talking about what they thought Harry would do when he graduated. Harry hadn’t seen it, but Hermione had. Hermione had told him that it was because they didn’t want to get their hopes up in case Harry died or something. The Headmaster and McGonagall made it a point to talk about Harry’s future, though. In fact, McGonagall seemed to have made getting Harry into the Auror Program her raison d’être. Ron wanted to join them in talking about Harry’s life after Hogwarts—as though to prove to everyone that he would have a life after Hogwarts—but his throat seemed to close up whenever he tried. 

He couldn’t picture a life without Harry Potter. Not the Boy-Who-Lived . . . No: Harry Potter, his best friend. He’d never had a friend like Harry. Harry was funny, and brave, and no one else would listen to Ron rant about the Cannons anymore except Harry. But he was also stubborn, and proud, and he could hold a grudge like nobody’s business. And he had a temper, though no one ever seemed to realize it.

And they were mates.

There were things about Harry that he didn’t like. The attention. The pride. Harry’s unwillingness to accept help from anyone. … The Snape _thing_ . . . They didn’t agree on everything, after all. Some of it was Harry’s fault, and some of it was his. There were things about Harry that he just flat out didn’t get. The idea of holding any bloke the way he held Hermione was enough to make Ron physically ill. It just wasn’t . . . well, it just didn’t _feel_ right. And the Snape thing . . . that was just kinda sick.

It was _Snape_ , for Merlin’s sake.

 ** _Snape_**.

But the idea of _not_ being Harry’s friend was enough to send chills down his spine. It was like someone asking him to give up a finger or something. He _liked_ his fingers. And he liked Harry . . . in the friend way.

Hermione shifted in his arms and he looked down at her, frowning as he thought. 

Things couldn’t go on like this. If they were going to be friends, Harry would have to trust them. . . . And if Harry was going to trust them, then he’d have to keep a level head when things got weird. Things usually had a way of getting weird with Harry.

Ron nodded resolutely and hugged Hermione closer. 

Something was going to have to give, but this time, he was willing to at least meet the other boy halfway. The rest, though, was up to Harry.

****

  


*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


He was naked in the desert, wearing only his new glasses. The cracked, thirsty earth felt warm beneath his bare feet. A wind blew, ruffling his hair, and Harry turned away from the breeze, wrinkling his nose. It smelled like ashes and decay.

His body ached faintly and he winced slightly as he looked around. The land was flat and bare and, despite the unfamiliar stars in the sky, there was something strangely familiar about this place—the faint imprint of a fever dream.

“Hello . . .?” He spoke normally, but his voice sounded like nothing more than a whisper in the strange emptiness. “ . . . Hello . . .”

“You’ve decided.”

The voice startled Harry and the Gryffindor whirled around, empty hands raised to defend himself against an attack that was not coming.

Draco—or rather, the shade of Draco—sneered slightly at the gesture. The translucent boy was wearing his Hogwarts’ robes—the same torn and hastily straightened ones he’d died in—but otherwise, he looked just like the boy Harry had passed in the hallways everyday. Somehow that was comforting. 

The blond stuck his chin out slightly, seemingly either unaware, or uncaring of Harry’s nudity. Harry couldn’t seem to find the presence of mind to feel ashamed of his body and met the other boy’s gaze without fear. There was no anger there, simply the smug self assurance that was so inherently Malfoy it made the breath catch somewhere below Harry’s breastbone. A deep ache took up residence deep inside him.

“Well, let’s have it then, Potter,” the Slytherin ordered briskly.

Harry looked away as the ache within him swelled and made his eyes sting slightly. Almost as an afterthought, his hands twitched inwards to cover his flaccid penis, but the motion was halfhearted and Draco did not seem to take note of it in the least.

“Come on, now,” he snapped, taking a step closer to the shorter teen. “None of that. Stiff upper lip and all.” The words were stingingly derisive, but Harry had the distinct impression that the derision was not aimed specifically at him.

The brunet scrambled for a reply that would not come and shifted unhappily from side to side. His tongue felt thick and clumsy and there was the distinct flavor of raw, bloodied meat in his mouth. He licked his lips in search of a wound, but tasted only the dry, harsh air and dust of the desert. “I beg your pardon?” 

A bird cawed unseen in the darkness of the moonless sky and the civility of the conversation struck him as absurd. He couldn’t meet Draco’s eyes.

“What have you chosen?” the Malfoy heir persisted, looking rather annoyed at Harry’s recalcitrance. “You’re running out of time.”

Harry turned away, looking up at the sky. Automatically, his eyes sought the Dog Star, but he could not find it. Instead, strange, fierce constellations stared back at him with ambivalence, fixed motionless in the sky. 

“Potter!”

The cry forcibly drew Harry’s attention back to the irritated phantom and he blinked as though refocusing the world would change what was happening. Draco’s silvery-blue eyes were sharp and narrowed, waiting impatiently.

“I haven’t chosen anything.”

The blond snorted sharply in response. “Bullocks.” A thin, pale hand waved dismissively through the air, breaking their eye contact. For a moment, the pale Seeker looked down with a thoughtful frown, as though thinking of a different way to pose his question. Then he looked back up, a conspiratorial half-smile curving his thin, aristocratic lips. 

Before Harry could move away, the shade took a quick step forward, bridging the gap between them so that he was practically pressed flush against the other boy. The Gryffindor shuddered reflexively as one of those awful, pale hands was pressed against his stomach, expecting the cold chill he’d come to associate with ghosts. Instead, though, there was only a mild tingling, like static electricity buzzing through him. His body leaned into the hand slightly, craving the sensation, and a light, pleasant hum settled under his skin, making him feel almost electrified.

“There’s a snake in your belly,” Draco whispered quietly in his ear. Harry shivered at the electric feel of lips brushing against the sensitive shell of flesh. “And it’s trying to get out.”

 _I don’t understand._ But when he opened his mouth, only one word left it: “Heka.” 

He didn’t know what kind of reply that was, but for a moment Draco held still against him, cool, translucent, and entirely too close. When the Slytherin pulled away from him, he had a strangely thoughtful look on his face, pensive in a way Harry had never seen before.

“I am no easy meat.” He said it as though it was a warning of some sort.

Harry’s mind scrambled to hold onto the words and lock them into memory, but the seemed to slide away from him like water. Draco took another step away from him.

“Wait!!” Something like panic blossomed inside Harry and he reached out to grip the other boy’s arm in desperation. His hand grasped at air.

Draco smiled at him, a harsh expression.

Harry tried to take a step forward, but his feet couldn’t seem to move. The aborted motion made him bend over sharply, arms extended imploringly towards the blond. “What is this place?” he heard himself grind out in frustration.

Draco simply continued to smile and pointed down at his companion’s feet. Harry’s eyes followed the gesture and he stared in astonishment as the cracks in the earth closed up. The ground turned black and smooth, like expensive lacquer, and seemed to solidify, feeling both firmer and less real at the same time. Harry raised his eyes, knowing what he would see even before he saw it. Grid squares, both white and black were forming around him, and the corresponding players began to appear. 

Their roles were obvious, but their sides were indistinguishable. There was no white or black, only the polychromatic swirl and sway of wizarding robes and skirts of various colors. Severus, Mad Eye, Bellatrix, and the shattered remains of what was once Lucius Malfoy masqueraded as bishops, while Narcissa Malfoy stood cold and proud, half hidden behind the knight Micah Jasperstone. Voldemort and Dumbledore faced one another with grim expressions from the far sides of the board, each a strangely garbed king. Hermione was behind him, looking stern and strangely beautiful in her Gryffindor robes, an unusual rook. Ron was at her side, maneuvering behind and in front of her with the ease that only a knight could manage. Peter Pettigrew made another curious knight, eyeing the youngest Weasley son with darting, frantic eyes across the board. Behind him, the rook Randolph Lestrange looked on with hungry eyes, on his side and immobile.

The Sword of Gryffindor rose slowly out of Harry’s square, the black of the board clinging to it in a strange, liquid way. A part of him wanted to grasp the hilt of the sword and cut his way through to the end of the board. To Voldemort. Another part of him was repulsed by the sight of it.

Harry turned to Draco, but a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye arrested his attention and he stepped back, just in time to see Richard Goyle lunge towards him gracelessly. Without a thought, he grabbed the Sword of Gryffindor and impaled the man. As the blade slid into the Death Eater-pawn, it seemed to burst into flames, and the elder Goyle dove forward into the sword, undone by the force of his attack. By the time his stomach touched the hilt, he was little more than a human-shaped cinder. 

The Gryffindor jerked the blade out, stunned by his own actions, and the charred husk fell heavily to the ground in front of him. He took a step back, unable to leave the confines of his square. The untarnished blade of the sword shone brilliant in the star light and the teen tried to avert his eyes, but could only look upwards. The fearsome constellations he’d seen before now wheeled and writhed above them, living things that hissed and snarled down at the heedless people on the board. 

He swayed on his feet at the immensity of the sky and a cool hand touched his wrist, grounding him. Draco had stepped into his square.

Their eyes met and Harry tried to think of something to say, but he could not. 

Draco smirked, an expression that was both easy arrogance and casual, tentative friendship. “When you reach the eighth square, you’ll be a Queen.”

Then a flash of green light hit them, sending them both tumbling to the ground, and the last thing Harry felt was the hard press of a body and the comforting familiarity of soft, dark robes.

_“I’ve got you.”_

Then he felt nothing at all.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


“Is everything in motion?”

Kingsley nodded in the fireplace. “I’ve sent the lot over to one of our people in the Department of Family Affairs. Hopefully, it will all be done by the New Year.”

Albus closed his eyes wearily. “Good. This has proceeded much more smoothly than I’d hoped.”

“Fudge will never know what hit him,” the Auror concurred with an uncharacteristically satisfied smirk.

“Once Harry is out of harm’s way, we can move onto other projects.” The Headmaster ate another peppermint, crunching the hard candy distractedly. “Have you been gathering what you need?”

“Yes, Albus. It will be the best birthday present Arthur’s ever had.” 

“Do whatever you need to do—within reason, of course. Alastor and Nymphadora are at your disposal as well.”

The disembodied head in the fireplace nodded again. “I’ve also been putting in a few words here and there about young Mr. Weasley. If he can keep up his grades, the program may yet accept him.”

Albus smiled, the first genuine smile Kingsley had seen since the call began. “Excellent. I know he was very disappointed when he only received an Acceptable in Potions. Is there anything more?”

For a moment the younger man frowned as though considering something. Then he looked back up at his old friend from the flames. “When will you tell Harry? You know you can’t keep this a secret forever.”

“I will tell him as soon as I can be assured that it is a possibility. He will not protest, I think. There will be a bit of noise once it’s made public, but that will no doubt fade soon enough. Given these dark times, the world has bigger things to worry about.”

Kingsley did not look convinced. “Albus, given these dark times, I doubt the world has anything bigger to worry about than Harry Potter.”

The Headmaster smiled faintly. “Too true, old friend. But I will worry about the world. For now, just take care of your small part of it.”

A snort of laughter was his only reply as the Auror’s head vanished from the flames. Albus straightened slowly and went back to his desk to finish the budget and prepare for his next appointment. He did not even notice how hard he was working to avoid looking at the clock where Harry’s hand was set on ‘Somewhere I Don’t Belong’ and the word ‘Prepared’ was inscribed along its length.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


Harry woke up alone, but he was somehow unsurprised. He felt different. Better. Tired, but better. He felt . . . determined.

He knew that Severus was going to fight this once again in that vicious, half-hearted way of his. And he also knew that he wasn’t going to allow it. Not this time. No matter what happened, he would not be chased away. He was sick to death of this stilted obsession. Either it went somewhere, or he gave it up entirely. Something had to give.

He lay with his eyes closed for several minutes listening to the fire crackle and the tick of a clock, before opening his eyes to stare blurrily at the world. He was laying on a couch, still naked and covered with a thick comforter. The dark fabric of the couch and the blanket blended into a navy blue blur. A fire danced merrily in the enormous hearth several feet away. There was a low sitting room table between him and fireplace and on it sat his new glasses. He could see the flames dance and flicker through his lenses. 

The boy reached out a careful arm, still unwilling to leave his comfy position on the couch, and was surprised to find the air pleasantly warm against his skin. He snagged the spectacles from the table and pushed himself upright, swaddling the enormous blanket around him. It smelled like Severus.

He settled his glasses on his nose and blinked as the world was brought into painfully sharp focus once more. These were much better than his old pair. On the table in front of him he could now see his clothing, neatly folded in a pile, with a note and his wand resting atop them. He leaned forward to retrieve the slip of paper. As he moved about, the torches on the wall suddenly flared to life, illuminating the room with sharp clarity. The moment his fingers touched the parchment, words appeared:

_I’ve gone to see the Headmaster. Be thankful it is Sunday, you lazy thing, because you’ve slept right through breakfast. See the House Elves about a bite to eat at the kitchens; I would tell you the way, but I rather think it would be a moot point. Try not to get into anymore trouble today, Mr. Potter. Any probing into your current whereabouts could become rather inconvenient rather quickly._

The boy smiled despite himself and stood to get dressed. His skin had the tight, tingly feel of more cleaning spells than had been necessary and he dressed hurriedly. It didn’t take long, though: he’d not been wearing very much last night. He was not so much rushed to get dressed as he was rushed not be naked. Harry could think of only so many reasons why Severus would go see Dumbledore after what happened over the past few days, and none of them were good. Once he was back in his pants and robe, he stood, keeping the blanket wrapped tight around him, and looked around the chamber curiously.

He’d been a bit too distracted last night to notice anything, but now not even his own precarious position could fully restrain his curiosity. The sitting room was a large rectangular chamber made of large, gray stone. Directly in front of him, the fire extended a bit into the room, away from the bookshelf lined walls. Enormous, seemingly ancient books were crammed into every inch of the shelves stacked in various strange ways to make room for even more volumes. What little free space there was on the shelves was cluttered with strange wizarding knickknacks, ornately shaped potions vials of glass, wood and metal, and liquid filled jars of varying shapes and sizes, all with something obscure and unpleasant looking in them.

The floor was made of the same stone as the walls and large, plushy carpets of forest green and dark blue were cast about. One was in front of the door to the chambers to his left, one was beneath the sitting area, another was beneath the immense oak desk in the area to his right and a fourth was behind the sitting area, in front of the two large doors that seemed to be that area’s only real asset. There were two big cushy-looking arm chairs on either side of the sitting area, each with a small table that matched the table in front him. The one to his left looked well used, but the one to the right didn’t seem to have had frequent occupants. Their fabric matched the black/navy blue of the couch. 

The area by the door was dull. Only a small table stood beside it to the right, and to the left rose another set of the high shelves. The desk on the other hand was an organized chaos of potions vials, herbs, loads of scrolls and papers, quills, inkwells, something that looked disturbingly like a dried and cured human hand, and various other sundry looking items. Harry also noticed his glasses—his old glasses that he’d been told were lost—sitting atop a pile of scrolls. He decided to leave them there. He liked his new ones better anyway. There was a doorway on the other side of the desk, but it was black inside and he couldn’t see where it led. In the corner next to the doorway, there was a rather out-of-place looking rocking chair made of some ancient, dark wood.

The wall behind him had three small, ordinary looking bookshelves—each with three shelves and all filled with what seemed to be compendiums of magazines and newspapers. There was one on either side of each door with the third bookcase set between the two. On top of one of them sat an issue of last year’s _Quibbler_ , the so-called “Harry Potter Edition,” and his own picture blinked up at the ceiling in a strangely two dimensional way. 

Harry shivered at the flat image of his face and returned to the couch before he gave into the urge to prowl around. Severus had trusted him a great deal in leaving him alone in his quarters. He had no doubt that the man was fully capable of waking him up and tossing him out on his ear after last night. That the cagey spy trusted him this much was touching and Harry refused to take advantage of the rare demonstration. He unwound the blanket and folded it carefully, setting it on the arm of the couch once he was done.

As they were in the dungeons, there were no windows. Really, Harry couldn’t image why there would be windows here. Snape’s office was near the entrance to the dungeons, just above ground. The windows there looked out onto the main gates that led to Hogsmead. As far as he could understand, this section of the dungeons was under the lake. There would have been nothing to see except the underbelly of the squid. Or maybe the occasional cavorting merfolk. Quite frankly, the idea of either made Harry wrinkle his nose. He hadn’t been all that fond of merfolk since Fourth Year.

Unbidden, his mind went to Ron and he shivered at the sudden chill that moved through him. He just wanted to kick himself over what had happened last night. The things he’d said. He _really_ hadn’t meant to knock Hermione down, but they never stopped _pushing_ . . . 

_"Do you have any idea how bloody_ hard _we're trying? Any idea at all how hard it is to be Harry Potter's best friends?"_

He sighed heavily and sat back into the soft cushions of the couch, staring at the flames. Ron was right, of course. He was being entirely unfair. And the Headmaster was right, too: they wouldn’t let him push them away.

But they wanted to know about Draco, and Severus, and the Dursleys and a hundred other things he didn’t want to—no, _couldn’t_ talk about.

They were his friends. His first friends. And he loved them like they were a part of him. He’d have to make this right somehow. Somehow. And he’d have to find a way to do it that would keep everyone involved safe.

_Somehow._

The Gryffindor frowned in contemplation at the fire, unintentionally biting at his lower lip as he rolled the issue around in his head. He wanted things to be the way they were before. He just wondered how much they would demand before they forgave him his stupidity.

A familiar tingle suddenly made his hair stand on end and Harry stiffened slightly. “Dobby?”

The Elf instantly materialized with a ‘crack,’ blushing at having been caught spying. Harry frowned at him slightly and the little creature had the good grace to look utterly abashed.

“Harry Potter was not in his bed, sir. Dobby was worried. Winky was saying that she is seeing Harry Potter come visit Mr. Death Eater Professor Snape last night, so Dobby is coming to see.”

Harry frowned darkly and a chill went through him. “Do you know if anyone else saw me? Did Winky tell anyone else?” If the Elf started gossiping, this could be an utter disaster . . .

But Dobby shook his head vigorously. “Oh, no, sir!!! Winky is being very, very fond of Mr. Professor Snape, sir! She is even crying less, sir. Hardly at all. And Winky is not touching the butterbeer once in over a week! Winky is deciding to be keeping his secrets and won’t let any of the other Elves clean his quarters anymore.” The bat-like ears on the Elf’s head seemed to wilt a moment. “Though . . . most Elves is being to frightened to come here now because of Mr. Death Eater Professor Snape’s temper, and he is locking us out quite often . . .” The elf slumped and tears started to form in his eyes at the memory.

The boy patted his friend on the shoulder to cheer him up and wondered what the professor could have possibly done to terrify the House Elves so much that they stopped cleaning. “Er . . .” He stared awkwardly at the servant, scrambling about for something calming to say. The last thing he felt like dealing with was a sobbing Dobby. “It’s alright. I’m sure it’s nothing personal.” 

The tiny creature let out an enormous sniffle. 

“Come on, now. None of that. I’m not upset that you found me. Thank you for looking for me. You really are a good friend.”

That did it. The sorrow on the Elf’s face immediately transformed into a look of pure joy and he beamed at the human. “Harry Potter is so kind!!” Dobby latched onto Harry’s leg, hugging him tight. “Harry Potter is missing breakfast! Would he be liking something?” Enormous, tennis ball-shaped eyes sparkled up at him, practically glowing at the thought of being useful.

Harry considered trying to shake the Elf off him, but figured that that would be either insulting to Dobby, impossible, or both. So instead, he smiled down at the Elf and wracked his brain for breakfast foods. “Um . . . May I have fried eggs, bacon, toast with jam and butter, pumpkin juice, fried potatoes, and some tea? And tea, fried eggs, fried tomatoes, black pudding, and toast and marmalade for Sev—er . . . the professor.”

Dobby nodded happily, ears flopping back and forth with the motion. “Yes sir!”

Harry couldn’t help but smile and he patted the Elf’s head affectionately. “Is twenty minutes alright?”

The House Elf released him and seemed to bounce back a step. He paused suddenly and gave Harry a sly look that the Gryffindor remembered all too well from Aunt Petunia’s kitchen. “Dobby is very happy to be seeing Master Harry Potter happy again. Dobby was sad when Harry Potter was sad.” The creature smiled slightly, and Harry suddenly felt uneasy. “Dobby will be keeping Harry Potter’s secrets, but if Mr. Death Eater Professor Snape is making Harry Potter unhappy again, Dobby will have to be protecting Harry Potter again, sir. It is for Harry Potter’s own good, sir.”

Harry’s jaw dropped and the Elf vanished with a crack before he could respond.

The teen leapt to his feet in protest. “Dobby!”

But the Elf did not return.

For a moment, Harry remained standing, feeling distinctly uneasy about the prospect of Dobby “protecting” him from Professor Snape. It didn’t help that a part of him wondered if he didn’t genuinely need the protection from Severus . . . 

The young man scowled and dropped back onto the couch. Dobby would be fine. He couldn’t actually _hurt_ the Professor, and—if what he said about Winky was true—he doubted the overly emotional female Elf would allow any harm to befall the Potions Master. . . . Though, in his experience, House Elf logic and ideas about what constituted harm were shaky at best.

Harry shrugged off the thought with a frown and eyed the blanket on the arm of the couch again. He was starting to feel antsy . . . itching for something to do. Besides, the fold really had been shoddy the first time—not nearly as even as it should have been. He stood, grabbed the blanket and began folding it again more neatly. As he brought two of the corners together, he realized that the chair to his right was the one he and Severus had sat in last night. His face flushed brilliant red at the memory and he quickly banished it. The last thing he needed was to get into an argument with Severus while half his blood was flowing southward. He looked away from the chair and finished folding the blanket, humming to keep away memories of Severus whispering the word ‘ _fuck_ ’ in his ear. 

When the blanket had been yet again reduced to a neatly folded rectangle, Harry sat stiffly on the chair and Occlouded his mind, falling into a light medative state as he waited for Severus to return. It did not seem like a long time had passed when he heard the doorknob rattle slightly. He turned expectantly as the door opened.

Severus entered with a dramatic swirl of his robes and drew himself up short when he caught sight of Harry still sitting on the couch. The door slammed shut loudly. Harry looked back at him curiously and for a moment the two merely stared at one another in silence. To his credit, the man did not look surprised, or even displeased to see the object of his indiscretions perched on the edge of his sofa. Nor did he look pleased. 

The expression in his eyes was dark and measuring, as though he were trying to come to some sort of decision. Harry simply waited.

At length, Snape moved again, walking slowly (for him) across the room to stand next to the fire. He watched the flames for a moment and then turned to look at the Gryffindor. “You stayed.” His voice was without inflection.

Harry sat back against the thick cushions. “It wasn’t the kind of thing one should leave after.” He wondered briefly what would have happened if he _had_ left, but brushed the thought aside almost immediately. He hadn’t left. He wouldn’t leave. Not this time.

“It?” the man repeated tonelessly. “No. I don’t suppose ‘it’ was.”

Harry felt his lips thin slightly. “You’re still feeling guilty about this?”

For a moment the man’s eyes narrowed and something indecipherable danced over his face. Then he looked away, choosing instead to stare at the wall behind Harry. “I am guilty of not feeling guilty enough to stop wanting this.” He said the words carefully, as though they would break if he put it in any other terms.

“You didn’t take me. I mean, we didn’t really have s—”

“I wanted to,” Snape hissed uncomfortably. He did that curious twisting motion he always seemed to do when faced with something he didn’t want to discuss. “I want to.” He looked back up, easily ensnaring the boy with his eyes. “You have no idea how close you came last night—”

Harry shook his head, breaking eye contact. “You wouldn’t have done something like that to me if I didn’t want it.”

“You sound so sure of yourself, Mr. Potter.”

Harry smiled tentatively. “Gryffindor.”

“Fool.” The word was said without rancor.

Harry looked away, smile fading despite his best efforts. The fire popped loudly. “I’ve ordered breakfast from Dobby. For both of us. I got you fried eggs, fried tomatoes, black pudding, and toast and marmalade.”

Snape watched him with fathomlessly dark eyes. “Rather presumptuous of you, wasn’t it?”

“You have it every Sunday for breakfast.” When the man’s gaze narrowed, Harry shrugged uncomfortably. “I’ve seen you. At breakfast, I mean.”

Finally, the Potions Master looked away, brooding at the fire once more. “I don’t know what you like to eat.” The words were a whisper.

When it became clear that he had nothing else to say, Harry stood and forced himself to walk over to the fire. He stood on the opposite side of the mantel from Snape and stared down at the flames, relishing the heat through his thin robes. After a moment, he spoke in a quiet, pensive tone. “Most anything, really. Beggars can’t be choosers and all. But I really like Cornish pasties and fried bacon. I hate Bubble and Squeak.” He made a face at the fire.

Severus turned and watched his companion for a moment in silence. “I’ve always been partial to raspberry scones, myself.”

Harry looked up, eyes devoid of humor. “What do you want, Severus?”

“. . . I do not know.”

“Well, I _know_ what I want. And I am not going to wait forever for you to figure it out.”

The man stiffened and turned his back to Harry and the flames, a tight, strained expression on his face. “Then leave. You are not bound to me. I will not stop you.” He shuddered, though if it was because of the sudden chill that had swept through him, or the feel of those green eyes burning into his back, he wasn’t sure. “Leave.”

Harry remained by the mantle, staring at the man’s back. “You know what really gets me the most about all of this? You can’t even see what’s happening to me.”

The shudder that moved through Severus was more pronounced this time. “I told you to leave.”

“I’m waiting for my breakfast,” the boy snapped in response. He pushed himself off the mantel and stalked towards Snape. “Are you even listening to me? You are all I think of. I want—”

Severus whirled, his robes flaring out around him and snarled at his unwelcome house guest. He flowed across the room, his mere presence forcing the boy back a step. “Want? Want?! Always on about what you want! You don’t know _what_ you want, Mr. Potter! _You. Are. A. Child._ ”

“You sure as hell didn’t seem to think so last night!”

Snape blanched.

Harry paled and bit his lower lip.

“Get out.”

“No.”

A muscle in the Potions Master’s jaw jumped and he squeezed his hands into tight fists and slowly lowered his head to stare at the ground. His entire body appeared to be trembling. “Mr. Potter. Leave. Now.”

Harry planted both his feet firmly on the ground, determination etched into every line of his body. “ _No._ ”

Severus moved so fast that the act seemed nothing more than a frantic flash of light and shadows. Then, quite abruptly, Harry found himself pressed back against the wall of the mantel, head ringing with the force of impact, and feet dangling a good foot or so off the ground as the tall man held him up, one stained hand wrapped tightly around his throat. The boy instantly panicked, kicking out futilely with his feet and scratching desperately at the iron grip cutting off his air as a series of choked gasps tore free of him. He could feel the blunt edges of the fingers cutting into his flesh and bruising him.

Snape smirked at his captive’s struggles, a cruel smile distorting his already graceless features, and a spark of something almost mad shone in his eyes. Harry’s robes had fallen open and Severus ran his free hand down the Gryffindor’s thin chest and slipped it easily into the flimsy pajama pants to caress bare flesh. He leaned forward until their noses were almost touching, still choking the youth with one hand and slowly rubbing his other hand up and down Harry’s penis. “Is this what you want? This is who I am Potter, _what_ I am. You have no clue—”

The flailing ceased as he was fondled and the hand holding Snape’s wrist tightened, cutting the man’s tirade off. Harry glared at him with a look that bordered on hatred, his pupils dilated wide as the flush in his face turned a purplish blue. A pink tongue darted out over swollen lips. “I walked out on the two most important things in my life last night just to be with you,” he rasped. “You are _all_ I want.”

Severus froze, wild eyes locked on Harry’s bloodshot green gaze, and he withdrew his hand. Then, slowly—ever so slowly—his fingers opened stiffly. They moved like broken bits of wood, as though he wasn’t controlling them at all, and Harry’s throat slipped out of them with the ease of water. The boy slid straight down the wall into a heap and stared up at Severus. There was no anger on his face, simply a look of frustration. And pain.

“Why?” he asked as he stared up at his teacher. His voice was scratchy. “Why do I want _you_ of all people? You’re such a pedantic arse. Why you?” 

The helpless frustration in the boy’s voice was too much and Severus’s eyes fluttered shut as bile rose in his throat. He turned away and his legs gave way beneath him, sending him crumpling to the floor in a heap beside his would-be suitor. He trembled, hiding his face in his hands as he knelt before the boy, and Harry watched him for a moment with hard eyes.

They were only inches apart, yet neither reached out to the other.

The Gryffindor stared at the man’s obvious suffering for a moment in silence. When he spoke, his voice was weary and troubled. “Why do you touch me if you don’t want me?”

“Because I _do_ want you, you imbecile,” Severus rasped into the soft fabric of the rug.

The fire crackled loudly. Neither of them seemed to notice that their food had arrived, and neither of them moved as the carefully prepared meal went cold.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


A week passed.

Classes resumed, Severus was summoned to a fruitless meeting for no apparent reason, and Harry watched him writhe under Crucius in a dream. He woke up in the Hospital Wing screaming Snape’s name. Dumbledore was strangely silent on the issue.

Everything felt gelled to Harry, as though he was more of a bystander than a player in the events surrounding him. On Tuesday he went to have tea with the Headmaster and they actually had tea. With a minimal amount of encouragement from Harry, Dumbledore regaled the teen with tales of his youth and stories of the days before Grindelwald. There was no Occlumency lesson.

“My friend,” the Headmaster had explained, “is indisposed this week, so your lessons will be on hold until after Christmas break. Unless, of course, there is a problem.”

Harry was grateful for the reprieve and did not question it. He did, however, make sure to practice his Occlumency every night before bed. He even took to practicing in the mornings when he woke up. It seemed to center him—clear his head. At any rate, the only visions Harry seemed to be having were of the meetings Severus was summoned to, and those only seemed to be torture sessions.

It was also beginning to look as though visions were the only time he’d see Severus. Kettleburn was still teaching Potions’ class because, according to Dumbledore, Snape was using the time to council each of the Slytherins separately. Personally, the Gryffindor thought that the man was just avoiding him. Part of him was furious at the behavior, but he honestly hadn’t expected anything less. The professor would happily stand in front of a dozen Avada Kedavras for “the cause,” but the moment Harry tried to catch his eye, the man vanished faster than Peeves after setting off a dung bomb in Filch’s office.

However, on more than one level, the reprieve was something of a blessing. He was still reeling from what had happened in the man’s quarters on Sunday. He’d left the Potions Master a crumpled heap on the floor and staggered back to the Tower without breakfast. Thank Merlin the man had had the foresight to return his invisibility cloak. As it was, only Ron had seen him reappear in the dorms, and the youngest Weasley son merely breezed by him with a flat, knowing look. 

Between Snape, Malfoy, and Ron and Hermione, Harry was nearly beside himself. He was torn between wanting to tell the world to bugger off, wanting to hide in his trunk, and wanted to just go out and kill Voldemort (or be killed) and get it all over with. Unfortunately, none of those were viable options, so all he could do was grit his teeth and avoid everyone’s eyes—especially the Slytherins. If he had had to deal with Snape on top of everything else, he might very well have broken down.

It was bad enough to have to walk into the Great Hall and see the heavy, dreary black banners that marked a death in the school. In the Wizarding World, mourning lasted for forty-five days and nights. Though Harry couldn’t seem to mourn properly, he had the sinking feeling that, like his grief over Cedric and Sirius, the curious hollowness Draco had left in his wake would never really fade, no matter how many days and nights passed. He felt guilty for losing Cedric, Sirius, and Draco in the shuffle, and so tried not to think about them at all. Avery and Goyle were consigned to a small, dark place inside him that he did not think about at all. He knew he’d have to kill people someday, and he didn’t _feel_ any solid emotion he could grapple with regarding them, so they were simply locked somewhere quiet. It was a surprisingly easy thing to do when he felt so numbed and simultaneously over and under whelmed. 

Avoiding thinking of so many things, however, gave him only one issue to brood on: his relationship—or rather, lack thereof—with Ron and Hermione. For nine days Ron and Hermione didn’t speak to him and every time he thought about approaching them, he got a heavy lump in his throat. By the time Monday rolled around again, he was sick of it. He cornered them in the dorms after Transfiguration class, standing directly in front of Common Room door so that couldn’t pass.

Ron glared at him and Hermione avoided his eyes.

For a moment the Trio stood in strained silence, ignoring the First and Second Years who stared at them in obvious interest. The tension between the three, coupled with the strain of Malfoy’s death had cast a heavy blanket over Gryffindor Tower that no one seemed to be able to shake. Even the other upperclassmen had taken to avoiding Ron, Hermione, and Harry.

Without acknowledging the ears straining to hear him, Harry forced himself to look at the two people who’d been at the epicenter of his life at Hogwarts. He pressed his lips together and exhaled heavily. “We need to talk.”

Hermione moved first, acknowledging his quiet request with a nod of her head before Ron could refuse him. When she met his eyes, he flinched at the unspoken censure there. He’d never meant to hurt them with his silence.

Ron set his jaw into a hard line, barely broken by the faint stubble that Harry had failed to notice the other boy growing. “The dorm.” His voice was flat.

Harry didn’t even bother to hide his sigh of relief and nodded. 

The other Gryffindors’ eyes followed the group as they headed towards, and then up, the stairs to the boys’ dormitory in a tense silence. No one called out to them as they passed. Ron opened the door and stepped inside, holding the door for Hermione and Harry. Thankfully, the room was empty. Without consulting one another, they all went to Harry’s bed.

In lieu of the real thing, Harry had taken to sleeping with Severus’s cloak at night and it lay in a rumpled heap on the foot of his otherwise neat blankets. Ron picked up the cloak in his right hand and stared at it expressionlessly. Hermione clambered up onto the high bed and tucked her legs beneath her, neatly arranging the pleats of her skirt. Harry swallowed hard and watched the other boy stare at the cloak, dread coiling in his stomach.

After a moment, Ron looked up from the cloak and met Harry’s surprisingly steady gaze. He handed the shorter boy the cloak. “I don’t want any secrets between us,” the redhead said as he relinquished the dark material.

Harry suddenly looked away, unable to meet his eyes. He plopped down on the bed, up towards the pillows and wrapped the cloak around him as though cold. “I don’t want that either, but things are so different now. . .” He wanted it to be like First Year again, but he couldn’t say that. He reclined against the pillows as Ron sat down and leaned back against one of the thick wooden posts. “It’s not only my life—my secret—at stake. I don’t want to see anyone else hurt because of me.”

Hermione frowned at him unhappily, her hazel eyes suspiciously bright. “Then _trust_ us.”

Harry’s lips parted and he looked at her for a long moment. Then his mouth closed and his eyes dropped to the now rumpled red coverlet before drifting up to Ron. It was the Weasley’s blue eyes that centered him: blue as ice, but without a hint of cold—simply . . . expectation. Waiting.

And supportive.

He swallowed around a cause-less obstruction in his throat and hunched back into his cloak. 

These people were his friends. They had followed him into blood and uncertainty. They had stood beside him when the whole world though he was mad. They tolerated his stony silences, his fits of temper, and his constant disregard for their advice. They tolerated _him_. Full stop. Being the Boy Who Lived didn’t stop that, and being gay didn’t stop that, and feeling as though his entire body had been turned inside out hadn’t stopped that. No matter what he did or said or felt, nothing shattered or bent within these people.

They were his friends.

Harry swallowed again, with only a bit less difficulty, and cleared his throat. The next time he opened his mouth, he told them. He told them nearly everything.

He told them about Draco. Without the advantage of a Veritaserum buffer, the words were stilted and occasionally he felt his eyes burn fiercely, but his voice never once cracked. Somehow, that counted as a victory of some sort, right? He told them about Mary and Goyle and Avery and the night in the woods. He told them about the funeral and the awful hollowness in Narcissa Malfoy’s eyes. He told them about his dreams of Voldemort and about the Prophecy. He told them about the silence between him and Remus. 

He didn’t mention the Dursleys at all, nor did he speak about the week he and Snape spent alone at Headquarters. In fact, Snape’s name was mentioned very few times, and then only in passing. As much as he wanted to share that with them, he knew he couldn’t. Somehow, wanking off with one’s teacher just wasn’t something that should be discussed . . . especially since he would have to tell them about what happened the next day. He wasn’t ready to face that yet. He didn’t want to deal with the memory of Snape’s hand ‘round his throat. 

To their credit, Ron and Hermione listened in silence, though the youngest Weasley son’s face was pale and his ears were bright red by the end. Hermione had tears in her eyes, but restrained herself admirably from flinging herself at Harry. 

It was Ron who moved first, shifting about on the bed with a scowl, before turning those pale blue eyes back to his best friend. “What happens now?”

Harry shrugged, unsure whether Ron meant them, or the entire situation. He wrapped the black cloak tighter about his body, taking comfort in the soft familiarity and faintly chemical scent.

“You can’t protect us forever,” the redhead said after a moment of silence. He looked away, plainly frustrated.

Hermione watched the two of them carefully for a moment before scrubbing her eyes to rid them of excess moisture. “We’ll help you.”

It was a statement—a decision.

Harry looked at her for a moment and then nodded in acquiescence, feeling somewhat better. This was not a fight he’d win any time soon, he knew. And it wasn’t one he particularly wanted to win.

Ron reached out and tugged lightly on the black cloak and Harry tensed noticeably. The other boy merely offered him a wan little smile and said, “Snape’s cloaks look just like this, you know.”

The sheer subtly of the question caught Harry off guard. He had expected demands—rants—not . . . _that_. When had Ron learned subtly?

They looked at one another and the weight of the statement seemed stifling. Then Harry nodded and pursed his lips in sudden decision. “I rather like them.” The words sounded forced and, though he had been going for noncommittal, his tone came out as pleading.

Ron’s jaw tightened and darkness danced briefly over his features, but he only nodded and sat back. Hesitantly, Harry looked over to Hermione. Her mouth was set in a tight line of disapproval and her face looked pinched, but she didn’t say anything either.

They were all quiet and tense for a long moment before Harry, still ensconced in the robe, looked back to Ron. “He said yes.”

Hermione started. “Who?”

“Dumbledore.” Harry cleared his throat unnecessarily. “He said—he said that we could probably do the D.A. again, but he wants all the Heads of House to approve it. He said they’d talk about it at the next staff meeting and that one professor would be assigned to supervise. And that we’d have to change the name.”

“Defensive Academics,” the bushy-haired prefect responded in a heartbeat.

Ron shot his girlfriend a sharp look. “Been sitting on that one for a while?”

The girl blushed and glared simultaneously and Harry could help but smile.

Ron grinned when he caught sight of the expression on the Seekers face. “It’ll be alright in the end, you know?”

Harry felt his smile widen of its own accord. “I know.” And for the first time since Fourth Year, he rather believed that was true.

Hermione smiled shifted on the bed so that she was leaning closer to the boys. “So let’s talk lesson plans.”

The other two groaned in unison. Harry didn’t even notice that the cloak had fallen off of his shoulders.

The next few days became a whirlwind of activity for Harry. There was Quidditch and even more studying than he’d been doing before, and tea and more stories with Dumbledore, and class work, and a hundred other things he seemed to have been missing all term. It was a strange thing to simply stop going through the motions and to suddenly begin to _live_ again. But Ron and Hermione were there and the minute a sulk seemed imminent, there was something new to do or discuss or a new Weasley Wizard Whiz just out of the laboratory. And there were letters, too . . . letters from the Weasleys and from Dumbledore—notes to see if he was okay.

It was Technicolor and unbelievably _real_. For the first time all year, he had fun. 

But he did not forget—not for an instant.

Sometimes he thought of Draco or Sirius or Cedric, and sometimes even the Dursleys snuck in there, but more often than not, he thought of Severus. How the man looked when he was angry. How he looked when he was aroused. How he looked when he was grieving. How he looked when he was under Cruciatus. How he looked when he had been worrying those rosary beads like they were the last things on earth. How he looked just before they kissed. How he looked just before he pushed Harry away.

He’d become important to him somehow. Severus Snape . . . was an important person to him. Snape had taught Harry the meaning of ‘burning gaze’—a look so intense, it was physically scalding. Sometimes, Harry thought that he might like to teach Snape something too.

It was strange. If anyone had said a year ago that he’d be attracted to his greasy, cruel Potions Master, he’d have fallen over laughing . . . If he hadn’t hexed the bastard right then and there. Now, though, it seemed funny that he hadn’t been drawn to the man before. 

Snape was not handsome, no matter how one looked at him. His skin had a faint jaundiced look, like candle wax; his hair was as greasy as it appeared; his teeth were a bit crooked and slightly yellowed, like aging parchment; his nose was too big and had distinctive hook to it where it had obviously been broken once too often. He was arrogant, smarmy, and could be downright boorish when it suited him. The man was just flat out unpleasant.

But somehow that didn’t deter Harry in the least, because Snape was brave and fierce and brilliant, and the way he touched Harry was enough to turn the Gryffindor into butter. Severus’s touches and caresses were claims and brands and each one seemed to burn the Potions Master deeper and deeper into his thoughts. He knew without knowing that Severus was fiercely and wildly jealous and that, once he claimed something as his, he would never willingly relinquish it. Strange and harsh as his ultimatum to the other man had sounded, he knew perfectly well that Snape wouldn’t let him go now. Odd as it seemed, he had already won the fight.

And—for reasons that he didn’t even want to consider—he rather liked the idea of being owned in that singular sort of way of Severus’s. Every time the man touched him, Severus owned him. That, he felt, was something that he could become accustomed to.

The only thing he was waiting on was for Snape to figure that out.

But he could be patient, if only for this one little thing. Hogwarts was a hard place to hide—even for someone as good as Severus Snape. And ultimately, Ron had been right: somehow everything would be alright in the end. He didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. He was as sure of it as he was that Snape would be back before very long. Severus was not an unselfish man, after all.

And so life, however arbitrary it may have been, continued . . . without Draco Malfoy. 

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


“You have sacrificed more than anyone could have possibly asked, Madame.” There was no hint of a twinkle in Albus’s eyes as he spoke and the somber expression made him seem even older than usual. “I must ask you: are you certain this is what you desire? You know the risks you take—better than most of your predecessors, I’d wager.”

Narcissa met his eyes evenly and was fiercely proud that she could maintain her composure without breaking down into tears or having a fit of passion. Or perhaps she had simply exhausted herself. Tears and passion, Lucius had always said, belonged behind closed doors. A Malfoy was always congenial and composed. She was a Malfoy. 

The woman took a fortifying sip of tea, ignoring the throb in her left arm with the motion. “I have never been one to leap blindly into the void,” she murmured to the lip of her teacup.

The Headmaster sighed quietly. “True, but there would have been other ways, my dear. Your actions, though well intentioned, have been rash, and—”

“My actions are my own,” the matriarch interrupted calmly. “I accepted the Mark freely. I do not regret it. If you can find no use for me, then I shall look elsewhere. Such services are always in demand. You are not his only opponent.” She set the teacup on the edge of the table and stood, her black skirts rustling as she prepared to go.

“I do not trust you.”

The words were said so quietly that the fire seemed to cover them. Narcissa froze, hand paused in mid air where she’d been reaching for her shift. She dropped her chin and turned slightly, the action making her eyes look incredibly large and beguiling. The Headmaster was not affected.

“What have I done to warrant such hesitance?” There was no offense or anger in her voice, merely cool, clinical curiosity. 

Albus smiled slightly at the question, a look of indulgence. “What have you done to prove anything to the contrary?”

Silk gloved hands smoothed down the front of her skirts as Narcissa watched the headmaster with flat, guarded eyes. “Guilty until proven innocent, then? I do not require your sponsorship so much that I need to play that game.”

“But you admit that you require it?” he asked her with keen eyes.

“I would not be here if I did not!” she snapped suddenly. The flash of anger vanished just as quickly as it had come, though, and the icy blonde sniffed as though dismissing the moment and looked away. Her eyes stared distantly at a landscape painting for a moment as she collected herself. “I have a vested interest in seeing the Dark Lord’s fall, Headmaster.”

She moved to study the painting more closely, skirts whispering around her. “He has taken everything from me. My son. My husband.” A hard pain shot up the bridge of her nose and ever so slowly, the painting blurred as tears formed lightly in her eyes. She blinked them back. “ _Stolen_ from me. Sacrificed to _his_ hubris.” She turned, unable to fully hold back the manic look in her eyes. “I can do this, Headmaster. I _must do this_.”

Albus took a slow, measured sip of tea. “Why come to me then?”

The woman smiled faintly, a humorless expression, and he voice was low and steady. “I have blood on my hands. I bear the collective sins of the Malfoy House. Before this is all over, these things will come to light, and I will be brought to task for the transgressions of my husband and son. You and I both know that people are slow to act and quick to blame. When Harry Potter destroys Voldemort, the Malfoy name will be brought into question. It is time to atone for our past mistakes.”

“And you do not believe that the blood already shed is enough to atone for whatever you may need me to sweep under the proverbial carpet?” He sounded genuinely curious.

The Lady sneered. “Blood binds, it does not free. _I_ am bound by blood.”

The Headmaster nodded in acknowledgement. “Perhaps.” There was a strangely loud click as he set the teacup and saucer down on the table. “But to whom? And for what purpose?”

Slender hands clenched into fists and a stricken expression flashed across his companion’s face. “For what is owed to me!” Narcissa cried in frustration. “For the husband I lost and the son who died for my sake! For the man who orchestrated their downfalls! For the Mark I accepted because I would have eventually been killed otherwise! And even for the heartless Headmaster who slept while my child breathed his last! For _that_ purpose, Professor!” At the end her voice cracked and she could feel a single, hot, treacherous tear sliding down her cheek. Frustrated by her own lack of control, she turned and dashed the wetness away with a gloved hand.

Pain radiated through her, an aching hollowness that had nothing to do with her left arm, and left her feeling utterly shattered inside. 

The Headmaster remained silent.

“For what is owed to me,” she whispered harshly to the wall.

Albus shifted in his chair, watching the woman’s bent form with sad eyes. “Ah. So you believe I _owe_ you this?”

Narcissa slowly turned her head and looked at him with an unfathomable expression. “I believe that I am a woman alone who is trying to stand up for her life. I believe that I have nothing left to offer in this little game of yours except myself. I believe that _this war must end_ and _I_ owe my child the courtesy of helping that end come about. And I believe that regardless of this Mark or your sufferance, I will not survive this, so everything else is negligible. What more do I have to give? Or to lose?”

“Yourself.” 

Exhausted, grief-stricken blue eyes met infinitely sad ones and Narcissa smiled once more. The expression twisted her pained face unnaturally and was somehow ghoulish. “I am gone. He knows about your little snake in Snape’s clothes, Headmaster. How long do you think Severus can keep this up? How long will you allow him to?”

Behind his beard, Albus’s lips thinned into a firm, unhappy line. “Lucius?”

“My husband and I did not always agree about everything, but we did share everything. Even such delicate information.”

“And how do you know that I will not betray you, Mrs. Malfoy,” the elderly man asked bluntly. “You are only of use to me as long are useful to me. Is _this_ truly a void you wish to test?” 

She swallowed heavily. “It is all I have, Headmaster. Surely even you can understand something as primal as revenge.” Her eyes narrowed darkly. “Something as Slytherin.”

“Human,” he corrected, tugging idly at his beard.

The two of them stared one another in the eye for a long, long moment. Finally Albus nodded once, a grim expression on his face, and stood. He extended his aged hand to Narcissa, prompting her to come closer. Her hands were small, soft, and surprisingly warm within their black silk confines. 

The Headmaster’s eyes were dark and hard as they shook. “Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Lady Malfoy.”

Something inside of Narcissa clenched and coiled at the words, a heaviness settling deep within her. She set her jaw and nodded firmly, ignoring the aching pain in her arm. “Thank you, Headmaster.” The gratefulness in her voice was genuine.

It was done.

She felt her strength leave her and almost collapsed back into her chair, exhausted. She distantly heard the Headmaster call her name, but made no effort to fight her exhaustion.

It was done.

It was truly done.

And they are all going to pay.

****

  
*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  


Birthdays were a time to take stock of one’s life—one’s accomplishments. He was thirty-eight years old today . . . And what had he to show for it all?

His robes swirled about his ankles as he paced. A House Elf—the doting, sniveling creature Barty Crouch had left in his wake—was unobtrusively dusting off a bookcase. Occasionally, her immense red-brown eyes would flicker to the agitated human and she would frown unhappily, but thankfully she remained blessedly silent. Severus didn’t quite know what he’d do if she had said something.

It had been sixteen days since Draco Malfoy had met his untimely end. Twelve days since he had held Harry Potter down in his lap and touched him in ways no one should be permitted to. Eleven days since Albus had damned them both to a lie they could not lead and he had subsequently driven the boy from his chambers. From his life. 

How was it possible for the world to keep going when so much of it was falling apart?

He had told himself it was for the best. He had told himself that he could do this without this monstrosity of a relationship. He had told himself that this would work.

He had lied.

Severus pivoted on his heel, feeling a negligible thrill of satisfaction as his robes snapped behind him with an audible ‘crack’ and startled the Elf. Her duster knocked into one of his innumerable trinkets and there came the light tinkle of shattering glass, but he ignored it. 

He found himself ignoring a lot of things lately. He ignored the Slytherins’ silence regarding Draco. He ignored the swell of pity in the rest of the staff’s eyes when they saw him. He ignored the returned letter of condolence he’d sent to Narcissa Malfoy. He ignored this intractable Elf that had waited on him hand and foot since he had opened his door to the sycophantic creatures again. He ignored the way Harry’s eyes followed him everytime they saw one another. He ignored the dark looks Granger and Weasley shot him. He ignored the throbbing in his arm that he now knew was _not_ the Dark Lord. He ignored Albus’s heavy disapproval. 

But he found himself unable to ignore his chair where they’d touched, or the boy’s glasses on the mantel, or the dark swirl of jealousy he felt whenever that stupidly heart stopping smile was directed at anyone else. 

He did not _want_ Harry to smile at anyone else. And _why_ was that half-blood Seamus Finnegan always _hovering_ over the whelp anyway? It was enough to set his teeth on edge.

Abruptly he stopped, garnering another worried glance from the Elf.

Potter. It always— _always_ —came back to a Potter. He should by all rights be furious with the brat . . . with himself . . . Instead he just felt hollow. Why did it feel this way?

“Master Snape, sir?”

Severus scowled and tuned to face the Elf, barely resisting the urge to cross his arms over his chest. “I am not your Master, Elf,” he snarled.

She ignored the comment in favor of smoothing down the front of her pristine tea towel and looking abashedly at her large, bare Elf feet. “Winky is worried that Master Snape has been being upset, sir.” Her voice was curiously melodious. “Winky is thinking that Master Snape, sir, might be happy if he is having his Harry Potter again.”

Severus blanched. “What?”

Winky looked up at him beneath her thin lashes, both reserved and coy. “Winky is asking for Special Assignment, like Dobby. Winky is watching out for Master Snape now, sir. Winky is keeping Master Snape’s secrets and his silences, sir. Dobby was being most put out with Master Snape for damaging Mister Harry Potter, so Winky is going to be with Master Snape now.” She hesitated and watched him carefully. “Dobby . . . Dobby can be being a bad Elf sometimes, sir, but he is not mean and he is trying his best. And Dobby is Winky’s friend, so Winky wants to be keeping him out of trouble.”

The Potions Master clenched his jaw and glared fixedly at the Elf. If she said she was keeping his secrets, then she was keeping his secrets, but the only one with any authority over the Elves was the Headmaster, and he was getting damned tired of that old man constantly sticking his nose into his business. “How long have you been on ‘Special Assignment,’ Elf?”

“Since Master Snape is coming back from his Manor, sir.”

The breath caught in his throat and he choked, turning away to bark out a painful cough. _**Fucking** Albus Dumbeldore—_

A glass of water appeared next to him with a ‘pop,’ hovering in the air as he struggled to catch his breath.

He turned away from the water, still doubled over in a coughing fit, and his chest rattled till it felt as though something tore inside him. Deep, gasping breaths were pulled into his lungs and shuddered through him as his eyes misted over.

_Sodding Lord Albus bloody fucking Dumbledore! **Bastard!**_

“Master—!”

“ _SHUT. UP_ ,” the human rasped, still choking and bent double. 

The Elf watched him in silence for a moment as the man regained his breath and slowly righted himself. Her large, liquid eyes were curiously expressionless.

Severus took deep gulps of air. “Have you been spying on me?” he demanded without looking down at her.

“Winky is keeping Master Professor Snape’s secrets, sir.” The creature sounded affronted that he’d dared implied anything to the contrary. Perhaps she was—House Elf honor and mores were never something he’d paid close attention to.

He straightened his robes and resumed his stalking, almost running Winky over before she hastily moved.

“Winky is thinking that Master Professor Snape should be talking with Harry Potter, sir.”

Severus shot her a look that was pure poison. “Mind your place, Elf! I do not need a servant’s advice on my personal affairs.”

The Elf sidestepped the man as he turned sharply on his heel to begin a new circuit of pacing. 

“Master is surely wise,” she agreed in a placating tone as she wrung the end of her tea towel in her spindly hands, “but sometimes he is not seeing the butterbeer for the foam.”

Abruptly, Severus stopped, his robes whispering about his ankles with lost momentum, and he tightly pinched the bridge of his considerable nose and squeezed his eyes shut. “Merlin deliver me from my just comeuppance in the form of match-making Death Eater’s House Elves.”

Either she hadn’t heard him, or she was ignoring him. Winky turned back to the table she’d been dusting and repaired the ornamental vial she’d broken with a wave of her hand. “Master is missing Harry Potter, but does he not wonder if Harry Potter is missing him?”

_I miss you._

“Winky is knowing Harry Potter is missing him. Winky is hearing the things Dobby is saying. But maybe Harry Potter is not going to be happy always missing Master Professor Snape. Maybe Harry Potter will be finding people so that he does not have to miss Master Professor Snape so much.”

Something dark and vicious coiled inside the Potions Master at the thought of Harry Potter “not missing him so much” anymore. Or worse: the thought of the boy “finding people.”

But isn’t that what he’d threatened? That he wouldn’t wait forever. 

He’d given Severus an ultimatum—one the older man was loathe to concede to . . . And one whose alternative he would not tolerate.

With every choice in his life currently pushing, pulling, and dragging him to the boy, who was he to blow against the wind? And these half-hearted struggles of his ultimately amounted to nothing anyway.

Could it really all be so simple?

Severus was a man who prided himself on control, and around Potter it seemed he had none. Not even the boy’s father had the dubious honor of inspiring such emotion in him. Rage, fear, anxiety, lust, loathing, possession, attraction . . . All the shackles he thought time and circumstance had relieved him of had come crashing back into his life in the form of a lightening bolt scar, a firm, unyielding mouth, and impossibly green eyes. How was it that this one insignificant Gryffindor could so upend his reason and routine? And yet he did so . . . effortlessly.

How could Severus vent all of what he was on the slumped shoulders of that impossible brat? Whether it be anger or affection? 

The Potions Master held few illusions about himself. He was not a nice, pleasant, or kind man. He was violent, both physically and emotionally. He was volcanic. He was snide and cruel. He was in no small measure sadistic. He would invariably hurt the boy. Regardless of whether or not the wounds were visible, it was inevitable. 

_“I will not accept any resignation from you at this time, Severus. Not in any form.”_

. . . And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? This . . . Hero . . . was his now. Handed over to him on a golden platter by the Great Lord Albus Dumbledore. 

_Kyrie eleison._

Or perhaps he was stolen . . . an apple from the Tree, devoured by the Serpent himself.

Severus stopped in front of the fire, arms crossed over his chest. He stared at the mantle where the glasses watched him with cracked, sightless lenses. He stared at the wall where he had tried to crush the boy’s throat but could not close his hand. He stared at the floor where those horribly green eyes had glared at him in bruised accusation.

_“Why do you touch me if you don’t want me?”_

He closed his eyes and turned his head away.

 _Et quare tristis incedo, dum affligit me inimicus?_

What was he to do now? Where were they to go?

Did Albus really believe that love would win the day? Was this even love?

No. 

You have to break in half to love someone like that.

This was lust. Obsession. Need, desire, and possession. This was a craving the way a dehydrated man craves water or the insomniac cries out for sleep. This was not love.

Did it even matter?

The boy—young man—was his now, to save or dispose of as he chose. 

To save.

He had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could not destroy this thing . . . Those fragile bones beneath his fingers would have given way so _easily_ . . . And yet his hand would not close. 

_“Well, I_ know _what I want. And I am not going to wait forever for you to figure it out.”_

_I want—_

_I want—_

What did he want? To claim this child? To bed him? To own him? To possess him? To _devour_ him?

Yes.

And it would destroy them both.

And if he did not, they would both supposedly be destroyed.

A thin, stained hand covered Severus’s mouth for a moment, and he closed his eyes slowly as though battling nausea. 

Albus would not forgive him this debauchery. He did not vocally blame him, but he would never forgive him. 

The professor’s hand slid up from his mouth to massage his temples as he squeezed his eyes shut. He could not escape this—was not even sure he wanted to.

_“I would sooner tear the veins from my own flesh one by one—it would amount to the same!”_

“Master?”

The Elf’s voice startled him and he jumped before leveling a vicious scowl at the creature. “ _What?_ ”

“Your clock, Master.”

Severus’s eyes swiveled towards the mantel before he could stop himself. “I don’t have—”

A clock. A garish, _purple_ wizard’s clock was sitting on his mantle. Next to it was a little slip of paper that read, “ _Happy Birthday, Severus!!_ ” in familiar, loopy letters. The clock had a single magenta hand that was pointing to where the 4 should have been; instead of a 4, though, the words “in a snit” were scrawled in brilliant green in the same handwriting.

If possible, the man’s dark scowl hardened even further. The long fingers of his right hand twitched upwards, curling towards his wrist as though tempted to pull out his wand and hex the offensive gift. 

Winky watched him with unabashed curiosity. “Sir?”

Abruptly, his fingers went slack and he stared blankly at the clock.

You had to break in half to love someone. He was not that much of a fool yet.

And yet . . . he just . . . wanted to see him. Just for a moment.

Severus closed his eyes and bowed his head. “I need some air.” He straightened his shoulders and headed towards the door with long, ground-eating strides. “You are not to be here when I return.”

“Yes, Master.”

He slammed the door behind him, cutting off the Elf’s last word.

The dungeons were quiet—no mischievous Slytherins playing about, no Gryffindors stirring up trouble, no Ravenclaws worried over assignments, or Hufflepuffs looking for their friends. Simply silence. It echoed inside him. Hogwarts had died with Draco Malfoy . . . just a little bit. He felt the hollowness within him, neighboring the dull ache of Harry Potter. 

His footsteps guided him up the stairs and through the doors—a dozen sets of doors, each unremarkable and a bit grayer than they were before. Forty-five days of mourning. How was that enough to encompass a life? Minerva averted her eyes when he passed her and he did not care. He was tired of caring. And of thinking. And of being.

_“Do this for the remembrance of me.”_

And then he was in font of the Forbidden Forest, headed towards Draco Malfoy’s memorial. A bit of marble was not enough to encompass a life either. Nor were memories. But it had been a “nice” service—everyone had said so—and that would have to be enough for the part-veela, not-quite-heroic son of a Death Eater. The air was cold and whispered in the trees, somehow both thin and thick, and his robes felt far too hot. 

He was tired.

However, it was not exhaustion, but surprise that made him stop short a few meters from the grave. 

Because there, sitting in front of the raised plaque as though he somehow belonged there, was Harry Potter. The boy looked tired, but somehow less fragile than the last time he’d seen him. But then again, Severus had been trying very hard over the last few days _not_ to see Harry Potter. 

How predictable that the boy would be here waiting for him. How . . . blasé.

He must have moved or inhaled sharply, because the Gryffindor suddenly looked up, green eyes almost . . . normal looking behind the shiny, thin frames of his glasses. He looked up at the man without saying anything, still as a statue in front of the memorial.

For a moment they stared at one another as the cool November wind moved between them, filling up the void. Severus’s hands balled into fists and he found himself unable to speak, the words trapped behind tightly clenched teeth. _“Couldn’t you even let me mourn in peace?”_ The words clogged his throat and constricted his breathing.

Harry looked away first. “I’m allowed to mourn, too, you know.” He turned to look at the lonely little stone that rose in memorial to Draco Malfoy. He reached out and his fingers danced over the words carved into the stone. _Friend, inspiration, hero._

The Boy Who Never Died’s mouth twisted unpleasantly. How clumsy. How inaccurate.

Draco had died friendless. He had inspired no one, stood for nothing. He had died because he was a millisecond too slow. Because nobody had cared if he died. Because no one had listened to him—Harry least of all. He had died a silly, senseless death. He was not a hero at all.

Severus looked at the ground, feeling uncomfortable and intrusive. “I suppose you do,” he said flatly in response to Harry’s comment. He closed his eyes and tried to banish memories of what they had done from his mind. “Heaven forbid the world does not bow before the will of the Famous Harry Potter.” The words were intentionally cruel, specifically designed to evoke a reaction.

But the boy disappointed him, neither flinching nor turning around to glare. In fact, he totally ignored Snape’s presence. 

The man snarled and took a step forward, intent on grabbing the boy, shaking him, dashing his head against the stone, _anything_. . . . Because it wasn’t enough. Being here, seeing him everyday—seeing and never, ever touching—never acknowledging . . . It just wasn’t enough. And it was better to kill Harry Potter than to never touch him again. 

Harry released a low, bitter chuckle, his fingers still dancing over the stone. “You never bowed to my will. To this—” 

“This is _nothing_ , Potter! _NOTHING!!_ ” Severus snarled. He grabbed the teenager by the forearm with bruising force and yanked him away from the memorial stone to his feet, shaking him roughly. Harry went limp, neither struggling nor protesting, instead simply staring up into his eyes with an unnervingly patient expression. “Just because we—I—made a foolish error—just because I lost control—”

The boy smiled abruptly and the expression was so sudden that Severus stopped again, the words once more unwilling to come. He was suddenly painfully aware of how close they stood, how warm Harry’s body was pressed against him . . . the scent of him. 

A small hand rose and cupped his cheek in a terrifyingly tender gesture and Harry leaned even closer, still smiling. “I make you lose control?”

Severus’s grip on his arm went slack. 

“I like that,” Harry murmured as he leaned against the man.

The Potions Master’s arms fell limp to his sides and he turned away. “I cannot do this.”

“We already have. We already are.”

“I cannot do this,” the man repeated. But he did not move away.

“Why not?”

“This is wrong.”

Harry looked up at him and he unwillingly found himself staring into those overly magnified green eyes. The boy frowned slightly. “Why is it so wrong?”

“You are—”

“I am not a child.”

“An innocent.”

Green eyes narrowed darkly for a moment and then Harry suddenly stepped away, bumping into the stone in his haste. The loss made Severus feel cold and he turned away, unable to meet that suddenly cold gaze. He swallowed heavily.

“You never asked,” Harry said after a moment.

The wind blew and the grass bent heavily as though it was too weak to support itself. “Asked what?”

Harry raised his chin and tilted his head to the side slightly to the right so that he was looking down at his professor. “What happened at the Durselys’.”

Severus’s head swung up suddenly and he felt the air grow chill as the weight of the words settled around them. He stood up straighter unconsciously. “It is not my concern.” _Please do not tell me._

Harry looked down slightly and tilted his head to the left. “You don’t want to know?”

“It is not my concern.”

“Am I not your concern?” It was not a question; it was a challenge.

 _Yes._ “Yes.”

“So ask me.”

“Harry . . .” His mouth moved mechanically, uncomfortable with its given task. “What happened at the Dursleys’?”

For a moment, Harry simply stared at him. There was nothing innocent or young in his gaze now; it was weighing, judging, calculating. Slytherin. Severus did not lower his gaze.

The wind blew and the trees shivered beneath its force.

“I killed him.”

The wind stopped blowing.

“My uncle,” Harry elaborated. “He cursed my parents. He struck me. He was going to put me back in the cupboard. I couldn’t bear it. I lost my temper. I Cursed him and his heart burst and he died.”

There was no emotion in his voice. No inflection. No regret. Nothing.

Severus stared into his eyes expressionlessly for a moment. He knew that he should feel something in the face of such cold news. Anything. Disappointment, shock, fear, revulsion, anger, sorrow, grief . . . But they all slipped past him. All he could feel was exhaustion and the chill of the air against his skin. He sighed heavily. “What Curse?” He had not missed the emphasis on the word “curse.”

Harry smiled sadly, as though laughing at some private joke. His eyes seemed to tear up behind his thick spectacles. “Cruciatus. Wandless magic.” He shrugged and gave a shaky laugh as a tear slid down his cheek. His voice trembled slightly as he spoke. “He—he knocked me down into the sitting room table and, um . . . I got so mad . . . It wasn’t fair that I was supposed to hurt this much and no one was going to do anything. And I hated him and I hated everyone because no one even cared and Sirius was dead and it was my fault. So I wished it more than I had wanted anything else in my life and he started screaming. And he fell down—” Harry’s voice cracked piteously “—and I—I couldn’t make the Curse stop and he kept screaming and screaming and then he made this awful little gagging noise and this big bubble of blood came out of his mouth. And he . . . he died.”

Severus watched him, trying to regain control of himself for a moment in silence. Then: “You never told anyone?”

Harry took off his glasses and wiped his eyes on the back of his hand. “Moody. Dumbledore. No one else. No one but you.”

The man watched him closely, unable to conjure the proper thing to do or say. For a rare moment, he was totally at a loss. “You mustn’t kill people.” The words tasted like bile and sounded foolish the moment he said them.

Harry laughed brokenly. “It will never stop. Killing, I mean.”

Severus shook his head with sudden vehemence and found himself striding forward to grip Harry by the shoulders and pull him upright. “No. No, that’s not what I meant, Harry. _You_ must not kill people. You mustn’t.”

Harry stared up at him and swallowed weakly, his voice thick with tears that he refused to let fall. “Then we’re all going to die.” He smiled slightly. “It’s okay. It’s just . . . hard. I didn’t love my uncle, but I didn’t mean to . . .” he trailed off and dropped his head. “No one deserves to die like that. I don’t want to hurt people anymore.”

 _“You can_ feel _his power in him, Severus, just as I can. That power must be trained before he loses his temper and lashes out at someone.”_ The words came back to him in a rush and Severus felt ill. Not because of the boy he was drawing into his arms and holding close, but because of all things this boy would have to endure.

Harry was right: it wasn’t fair.

Those small hands latched onto his robe and gripped him tight, pulling the older man close until all either of them could feel or smell or remember was the other . . . so close it burned. And it still wasn’t enough. Severus tilted Harry’s head back and rough, stained fingers roughly pushed the youth’s reluctant tears away before the older man pulled him into a deep, hungry kiss.

Harry responded eagerly and Severus pulled away after a moment, dragging the boy even closer. 

_Only sixteen years old._

He squeezed his eyes shut, one hand petting Harry’s hair gently. “We must be very careful,” he murmured.

“I know.”

“No one can know.”

“I know.”

“No one.”

“No one,” Harry agreed, his arms wrapped tightly around the older man’s waist. He laid his head against Severus’s chest gently. “Are you doing this because you pity me?”

“No. I do not pity people.”

“Then why?”

“Because you need someone. And I would rather it be me than anyone else.”

“Oh.” Harry looked up at him again with a strange, detached kind of curiosity. “. . . Do you need me?”

 _No. Yes._ Severus pulled back to look at him critically for a moment. “It has been a very long time since I needed anyone, Mr—”

“Harry.”

“. . . Harry.”

The boy smiled faintly and pulled away. “Ah. I see.” He turned and sat down on the grass in front of the memorial, staring at the marble once more. “Sit with me?”

Severus frowned at his back, unsure what to make of such a response. “It is cold.”

Harry pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them. “I can bear a bit of cold for Draco. I owe him, you know.”

Severus sat down next to the boy. Yes. He knew. He watched the young man in silence for a moment. “You belong to me now.” There was no compromise his voice.

“I belonged to you anyway.” Harry closed his eyes. “You were just being stubborn.”

Having nothing to say to that, Severus simply sat in silence. The cold seemed to be seeping into his very bones, but he could not bring himself to care. There were, after all, other things to be concerned about. Like how to keep this little liaison under wraps. And the Dark Lord. And whatever Dumbledore was plotting. And how to keep Harry from dying or getting his idiot self killed. And classes. And Narcissa Malfoy. And the Death Eaters. And Lupin. And those damned Elves.

So much . . .

Harry sighed quietly and Severus repeated the action, watching the boy. This was wrong. 

But that was the least of either of their problems. Nothing about the life of Harry Potter was _right_ , so what was this little bit of happiness in comparison? Nothing.

Besides . . . Severus found his eyes wandering to the top tower of Hogwarts—the Headmaster’s office—and frowned slightly. There were all sorts of monsters and abominations in the world, by both design and necessity. This was only a small aberration. He could live with that.

 _Happy Birthday to me_.

Though, when he really looked at it, perhaps that was all it was really about. Control. Time. Aberration. Change. And this thing with the—with _him_ . . . Perhaps one’s life really only came down to the least onerous choice. And given the alternative . . . 

His dark eyes flickered back to his companion, carefully tracing the soft, unbroken curve of the youth’s cheek with his eyes. 

The least onerous choice?

Yes. He could most definitely live with that.

“Squeak, squeak, squeak, my lords . . .”

Harry opened his eyes. “What did you say?”

The man shook head and pushed himself to his feet, roughly brushing off his robes. “Nothing.” He held out a hand with an impatient frown. “Come, Harry; you’ll catch your death out here.”

Harry smiled slightly and accepted his hand. “No. Not yet. I’ve too much to do before I die.”

Severus’s eyes dimmed slightly, but he remained quiet, and Harry followed him back to Hogwarts in silence, holding his hand for as long as possible.

 

****

*~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*

  
_“A clouded dream on an earthly night  
Hangs upon the crescent moon.  
A voiceless song in an ageless light  
Sings at the coming dawn . . .  
Birds in flight are calling there,  
Where the heart moves the stones;  
It's there that my heart is longing for,  
All for the love of you._  


  
_A painting hangs on an ivy wall,  
Nestled in the emerald moss.  
The eyes declare a truce of trust,  
Then it draws me far away  
Where, deep in the desert twilight,  
Sand melts in pools of the sky,  
Darkness lays her crimson cloak;  
Your lamps will call me home.”_  


\- Loreena McKennitt  
The Mystic’s Dream

  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  


  
**  
_~ Fin_  
**  


  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~***  


  
**To be continued in:  
 _The J. Alfred Prufrock Arc_ Part II –  
Verse 10: _Honest Opinions About the Stars_**  


  
***~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ & ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~*  
**  



End file.
